


And you, you can't live like this

by Zarla



Series: Vargas Stories [16]
Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Angst, Bickering, Codependency, M/M, Original Character(s), Pain, Sexual Content, Sexual Repression, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Relationships, a LOT of sexual repression, broken soulbonds and how not to deal with them, escalating attempts at various kinds of intimacy for all the wrong reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla
Summary: Edgar and Scriabin have been separated - no longer host and supernatural brain parasite, they can live their own lives now entirely without the other. It's everything they ever wanted. Everything should be fixed now. Everything should be better.Instead, the two of them are desperate to reopen that mental/emotional link between them. So desperate that they're willing to try anything to do it.Anything.
Relationships: Edgar/Scriabin
Series: Vargas Stories [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/20964
Comments: 94
Kudos: 115





	1. Experiment 1: Physical Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Chapter 29 of [Vargas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492). Title comes from [Heart's a Mess by Gotye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpN1j8R5lZ8).

It never stopped.

Every minute of every day, every spare thought he had ended up echoing in the same empty place. The same desperate call, begging and pleading for an impossible answer.

 _Scriabin?_ Edgar thought over and over, no matter how many days passed, no matter how much he thought they'd be adjusted to all this. Over and over and over, he called, and the loss never soothed. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't planned for this, but how could anyone?

How could anyone have _prepared_ for this?

On some days Edgar was okay, he could sleep and work and do normal things without feeling empty inside. Well, more empty than usual. And at those times he'd think it was over, he'd finally cleared the hurdle and he'd never have to think about it again. All done, case closed.

And then the next day he'd be right back to where he'd started, hurting just as much as when the loss was new.

He hated it, he hated this feeling, he hated that he _shouldn't_ feel like this. So much of their mutual animosity had been because they'd shared a body. Now they didn't anymore, so everything should be fixed. It should be over. It should be _better_. But instead it just kept hurting, a kind of awful longing he didn't even know he was capable of.

Scriabin never told him if he felt the same. At times it felt like Scriabin was better at maintaining boundaries between them than Edgar was, which was so sickly ironic that it almost made him physically sick. Whenever he thought that, he expected Scriabin to tear him apart for it, and every time he didn't it just made him feel worse.

Edgar swallowed it down and buried it and went about his life because that's what he did, and that's what he always did, and it festered and the wound wept and he tried to ignore it.

It had been a particularly bad day, where every thought he had called out for its partner, where Edgar was so desperate to hear him that he kept starting fake conversations with him in his head, then got angry at himself for doing it, then got even more frustrated at himself because he _kept doing it_. No matter how many times he told himself it was over, it was all _over_ , they were _never_ going to have what they used to, he kept doing it. Each time it tore the weak stitches he'd put over the wound, and he kept doing it.

Edgar was curled up on his side in bed, and he could hear Scriabin breathing beside him. It had taken time for him to get used to having someone else in the room, to hearing and feeling them shift around at night, but it was a reminder that Scriabin was there. It was a weak approximation of the constant noise that Scriabin had made when he'd been inside his head, but it was something. Edgar clung to it, even though he knew it was stupid and pointless and didn't make any sense, and he hated himself for doing it.

His thoughts kept aligning to Scriabin's magnetic point even though it didn't exist anymore, and he was so frustrated he wanted to scream, and he was so _tired_ , and he was angry at Scriabin because he was sleeping so easily, Scriabin didn't _care_ , he wasn't going through anything like this and that wasn't fair, Edgar shouldn't be the only one who felt like this. They'd _both_ shared a mind back then, why was Edgar the only one who couldn't get over it? Why did he keep _doing_ this?

 _Scriabin?_

For a brief moment, a brief lapse in judgment, Edgar hoped even though he knew it was pointless. Maybe if he just tried hard enough, he could reach him. He hated it when he hoped, it just hurt more each time it failed. _Scriabin, can you hear me? Can you hear me?_

Scriabin shifted next to him, and that spark of hope burst into sudden light.

"Scriabin? Can you hear me?" And Edgar blinked as he heard the words. He'd meant that to be internal, goddamn it. He couldn't even control that much anymore. God, what was wrong with him?

Scriabin groaned, shifting again. He had his back to him in the dark, and he didn't roll over.

"Whaaat?" Scriabin grumbled. "I'm trying to sleep. What do you want?"

"I didn't mean to say that out loud," Edgar said, a little defensively, without actually thinking. "Never mind."

Scriabin made an annoyed, dismissive sound. Then they were quiet for a few moments as what Edgar had said sunk in.

"I keep trying to talk to you," Edgar said, and Scriabin groaned again, louder this time.

"Oh my god, can this not wait until tomorrow? Why are you doing this _now_? What time even is it? Goddamnit."

Edgar answered his dismissive sound with one of his own. "It never mattered much to you when I was trying to sleep. You talked to me whether I wanted you to or not."

"Uuuuugh." Scriabin rolled onto his back with another groan. "Then what? What is it? What's so important it can't wait until tomorrow? It better be important."

Scriabin never wanted to talk about whether or not he missed Edgar in return. He denied it outright, and even in more vulnerable moments, he ducked and evaded the question in a way that Edgar wanted to be meaningful. He wanted him to miss him back, he wanted that really badly and he didn't know why. 

He wanted something impossible, and he didn't know how to put it into words that Scriabin would listen to or care about, and he had to find some other way to approach it.

Edgar turned over, looking at Scriabin's vague shape in the dark. "Do you remember what you were? What you used to be like?"

"Didn't I already answer this question?"

"You're still what you were, aren't you? What you used to be, in there."

Scriabin took in a breath through his nose like he was trying to keep his temper, and then shook his head. "Christ. Okay. Fine. I guess we'll do this right now, why not. Why not." He sighed. "Yes, I'm still what I was. No, I'm not human, even if I _look_ human. This body is just a vessel for what I actually am. I'm still the spooky brain boogieman who was so so mean to you except you can't hear me anymore. There, are you satisfied?" And he let out another annoyed breath as he turned his head away. "I don't know why this particular point matters so much to you." 

"So, can you still... do the things you used to do, in there?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were connected to my brain in a lot of different ways... you could read my thoughts and my feelings and everything else. How did that work? How did you do that?"

Scriabin paused in thought, then made that same annoyed sigh again. "I've told you before, it's incredibly hard to explain. You can't even conceive of what it was like to be what I was, to be a formless foreign consciousness inside of someone else's. Humans don't have a concept for that. You can't even imagine it."

"I heard you talking to me... I could understand that."

"Even that is limited by your capacity to understand." Scriabin's voice was leveling out - he was definitely completely awake now. He was going to be very irritated with Edgar tomorrow for this. "You heard my voice, you say. You heard me speaking to you. Let's examine the terms you're using a bit more closely. You didn't _hear_ my voice. You may _think_ you did, you may imagine that I was speaking to you, you may have even associated certain traits that come with physical speech to whatever it was I was saying to you. But I was not _speaking_ to you in the way that humans understand it."

"So, you were thinking it to me?"

"That's closer, but still not correct. I had my own thoughts back then that I could keep to myself, with you none the wiser. I could _think_ , and I could _speak_ to you, and they were not the same thing." He paused to take a breath. "The mind is limited by the imagination, by the ability you have to categorize whatever it is you are experiencing into something known. There are certain things that you just do not have the tools to deal with or comprehend. What I was doing, when I spoke to you, was one of those things. Your brain could not understand it in its real, true form. Instead, you understood it as the closest equivalent - someone talking to you. As we grew..." And Scriabin stopped for a moment, searching for the right word, and he didn't sound happy with the one he ended up with. "As we grew together, you were able to read greater detail into what I was saying, due to our increased familiarity, but you read that detail in the only context you knew how - into someone speaking to you."

Edgar made a thoughtful sound. It sounded reasonable enough, but it was so hard to take Scriabin at his word. Even now, he was sure he was hiding something from him, spinning a compelling illusion out of something he couldn't even imagine. 

"Now, you may be thinking..." Scriabin gestured to the ceiling, which made Edgar smile. He was always so theatric. "'Scriabin, you _did_ speak to me like a human would. I remember.' And that is true, to an extent. I spoke to you in dreams, and I borrowed your knowledge of how to do that. And I could do it through the toy as well, after a certain point, borrowing again from how you understand those things to work. Did you ever wonder if anyone _else_ could hear me talk through that toy, or just you?"

"Can you..." Edgar looked away, not sure if he could say this, but the blood filling that hole within him felt like it was going to choke him if he didn't at least _try_. "Can you still... talk, like that? Not the way we're talking now, but... the way we used to."

Scriabin paused, then sat upright. Something had changed in his voice. "What are you asking me to do, exactly?"

"Aren't you curious?" Edgar couldn't just say it, he knew that Scriabin would reject it. He always did. He had to find other ways around it. "You had such a deep and complete connection to everything I was, you could control all of it. Aren't you curious if you can still... do that?"

Scriabin was quiet for a few seconds, and there was something a little amused when he spoke next. "Are you asking me to control you? Really?"

Edgar made a frustrated noise, feeling a bit warm. "No, that's not- that's not what I meant. You used to have all these... pathways and avenues and... ways to _do_ things." He scratched at the back of his hands as he tried to think. "Can you still... do things like that?"

"Can I still do those kind of things to _you_?" Scriabin still sounded amused for some reason. Edgar didn't really like the implication in his words, even if he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was or why, and he moved from scratching his hands to scratching at the scars beneath his eyes as he looked at him.

"I mean, from a purely logical standpoint, I'd make the most sense. I'm the one you had the closest connection with. If you could still do it with anyone, it'd be me, wouldn't it?"

"Purely logical." He could hear the smile in Scriabin's voice. "Of course."

Edgar felt increasingly warm and jittery, but he had to keep talking. "Don't you wonder about that? If you can still do that?"

Scriabin drew up his knees to rest his arms across them, propping up his head with one hand. Edgar could still hear that smile. "It sounds like _you've_ been doing a lot of wondering about it, my boy. I can't imagine why. Do you really long for control _that_ much?"

"It's not about control-" Edgar's skin felt warmer under his fingertips. "It's about what... you can still do, and what you can't, and what..." He slowed. "What I can't."

"What you can't, hm?" Scriabin still sounded strangely at ease.

"I can't... well, she said I can't do anything supernatural now, it's supposedly all been locked off to me. Not that..." It was still strange to think about. For all that Scriabin seemed comfortable with it, it was hard for Edgar to accept that the man beside him was anything but human. "Not that humans have any supernatural proficiency anyway, that all comes from _your_ side. Just because _I_ can't doesn't mean that _you_ can't... that makes sense, doesn't it?"

Silence, and Edgar's scratching was entirely too loud.

"Since it sounds like you miss it, would you like me to read your mind for you?" Scriabin said, in a familiarly smug and amused tone. "It sounds like you want to hear my voice again. And not as you hear it now. The way it used to be."

Edgar looked away towards the wall, not that it made much of a difference in the dark. His skin was starting to hurt, and he forced his hand down with a mental reprimand and brief pulse of irritation. He hated it when he did that.

"It sounds like you want _me_ to try and talk to _you_ , the way we used to. Do you really miss me that much?" Scriabin said, still smiling. "Say it isn't so! After all that hating each other we did? How could that be? Here we are, separate and equal, both finally free of each other. Isn't that everything you ever wanted?"

"But, aren't you curious?" Edgar couldn't let it go, he couldn't give up, not now. "You've always been curious. Don't tell me you're not curious about this? That it's never crossed your mind, not even once?" It had to have, it _had_ to. "Even with a situation like ours? I'm almost positive nothing like what happened with us has ever happened before. Do you know if anything else like you ever got their own body like this?"

"No," Scriabin said in a way that made him immediately regret asking the question.

"What- what I'm getting at is, this has never happened before, and as such, no one knows how it works, or what we can or can't do. We're... the way we are now, where we can't hear each other, but maybe it's because we just haven't... tried hard enough."

Scriabin was quiet in a way that was encouraging, or maybe Edgar was just desperate. He felt like he was close, and he had to try while he still had the chance. 

"I know you. You can't tell me you don't want to know what I'm thinking sometimes... that you don't want to know what I'm feeling, or what I'm hiding from, or the best way to make me upset. You can't tell me you don't want to just... be able to reach into me and take whatever you want, for whatever purpose you want."

"Do I?" Scriabin said, quite mildly, and Edgar was shaking now but he had to keep going.

"Imagine if you could keep your own mental bubble of privacy and solitude, but you could also reach into mine if you wanted to... no one's ever done that before, Scriabin. Aren't you curious about whether that can be done? If you can do that to someone?" _To me?_

"It sounds like you're describing telepathy," Scriabin said in much the same tone of voice, and Edgar wished it gave him more to work with. He had no idea what Scriabin was thinking now.

"Something like that. You said it's difficult to explain, I don't know a better way to describe it. The two of us, being what we were to each other... it gives us the opportunity to try something that'd be impossible for anyone else. We have a unique chance here to really make a breakthrough in the field of..." He realized how stupid it was as it came out of his mouth. "The field of... whatever this is."

"Mmhmm." Back to quietly amused again. "And what do _you_ get out of this, hmm? You're offering yourself to me on a silver platter, and I doubt it's purely for my benefit. You're not that altruistic, even if you can be that stupid. Why do you want to give me access to your mind, Edgar? Why do you want to prostrate yourself in front of me again? Surely anything that would accomplish could be done out here, couldn't it?"

" _I'm_ curious about it," Edgar said, and it wasn't _entirely_ a lie but it was pretty close. "And, I've told you before, even if you refuse to believe me... I." It was hard to get out, he found his teeth clenching without thinking. "I... miss you. Being able to talk to you, like we used to. Knowing you're... there."

"I'm right here," Scriabin said, although his voice was quieter now.

"Not... not like that, I mean, being able to hear your voice."

"I'm talking right now, aren't I?"

"Not- not like this, I meant the way you used to _before_."

"I wasn't strictly _talking_ to you back then, remember?"

"Goddamn it, Scriabin." 

And Scriabin laughed, a little. "Don't get mad at me. If you want actual answers, ask better questions."

Edgar huffed in annoyance. "At least if we were connected again, I could know how you actually feel... you never tell me anything."

"Hm." Scriabin leaned heavier on one hand, turning his head away to look at him sidelong, or so he guessed. "I've _never_ told you anything. I suppose you want me to say that I miss you, too."

And Edgar made a sound at that, not quite a word, not one he intended.

"You want me to say that I miss you, and I miss being with you, and I miss talking to you, and feeling what you felt, and knowing you in every way you can know a person, and all of that." Scriabin's voice drifted away from mocking as he spoke. "That I long for the days when the two of us existed as one being, sharing one mind, knowing each other intimately as no one else ever could. You miss me knowing you, but you want me to say that I miss you knowing me, too. Is that it? You want to know that your feelings about this aren't unshared."

Edgar made an uncomfortable noise.

"You want to know that I'm longing for you, just as you long for me. Reciprocation. Mutual agonizing unending pining for what has been lost, and can never be regained. Isn't that right?"

He couldn't agree to it, he was sure it'd be painful.

"You really are so transparent." Scriabin sounded too thoughtful for how detached he was presenting himself. "As easy to read as a book, even without a deeper connection between us. But, even with your inept attempts to hide your intentions, you did stumble on something legitimate."

"Hm?" Edgar had felt exposed and pathetic, but now some kind of absurd hope pushed all of those to one side.

"I do wonder, now that you've brought up the possibility, if I can still exert some kind of influence on you. If I've retained some of my power and my abilities, even as sequestered away as I am in this new vessel." Edgar could catch motion in the dark, perhaps Scriabin rubbing his chin. "I remember how to do it. I know where the leylines are within, even if the doors I once knew are closed. That doesn't necessarily mean they can't be opened again. Hmm." A moment. "You know... I _am_ curious, now that you've suggested it."

There was something in his voice that made him think that Scriabin was more than curious, that there was something else motivating him, but Edgar hadn't exactly been forthright about most of this himself.

That hope kept breathing.

"I know how much you like going about this kind of thing scientifically." Scriabin shifted so he was facing Edgar now, his legs crossed, and without thinking Edgar sat up to do the same. "So, since you're _so_ insistent on this little experiment, let's do it properly."

Scriabin also liked methodically analyzing things, he always had, but there was no point in bringing that up.

"First, let's establish a baseline. Try to 'talk' to me as you used to. I'm sure you haven't done that in a while, but try to-"

"I do it all the time," Edgar said, without thinking. "I've been doing it all night."

There was a long pause.

"I don't think I've ever _stopped_ doing it," Edgar said, quieter.

Scriabin had not expected that answer, and it didn't please him. "Hm. Well. Your mind is just a human mind. Such things are usually outside their capabilities."

 _Scriabin?_ Edgar tried, just in case, to no reply.

"Now... I'm going to try to speak to you, as I once did. Can you hear me?"

Edgar tried as hard as he could to listen for it, listen for anything, any change.

"No... I don't hear anything." Edgar didn't mean to sound as disappointed as he did. Scriabin made a sound that matched him more than he probably intended.

"Hm. Well, given the circumstances, I'm sure they didn't want to make these kind of things _easy_. Who knows what I'd get up to if these things were _easy_? Simply trying to reach across the void on our own is not sufficient. We'll have to close the distance in some way."

"Like what?"

"Really? You can't even guess?" Scriabin shook his head with a sigh. "You are hopeless without me. If mental closeness can't be achieved on its own, then what closeness comes next? Think, Edgar."

He thought, he hit on it, but for some reason couldn't get it to come out of his mouth.

"Ugh, I know just what you're thinking, too. How frustrating. You still can't let these things go! Fine." Scriabin reached out and took Edgar's hand, lacing their fingers together. "It's _physical_ closeness, you stupid man. Who are you even hiding it from in here? There's just you and me, and I already _know_ you."

"I wasn't hiding it..." Edgar felt uncomfortable for too many reasons to pin down at once, and Scriabin's attacks weren't helping.

"Do you hear anything?"

 _Scriabin?_ he called, and he listened and listened. All he could hear was his heartbeat, and all he could feel was Scriabin's hand entwined with his own. Being touched was still unusual for him, still brought up a kind of energy or franticness he didn't understand - something in him that wanted to do something, and he wasn't sure if it was getting away or something else.

"I don't hear anything..." And he thought. "Do you?"

A moment, and he felt Scriabin tighten his grip on his hand. "No, I'm not getting any kind of response. I'm sure I'm doing it correctly... I can see it, I know it's there. It just won't open the way it should..."

"Do we have to try harder...?"

"That's what logically follows." A pause, and Scriabin squeezed his hand again. "Alright, next step."

Scriabin used his grip on Edgar's hand to pull him close, and before he knew what was happening, he'd wrapped his arms around him in a hug.

Something in Edgar's brain flatlined at the realization, the absolute absurdity of it, the impossibility of Scriabin ever extending anything even remotely approaching this gesture to him. His body tingled, for some reason his eyes stung and he didn't understand why. It was like he was suddenly paralyzed with something like fear.

"For Christ's sake." Scriabin shook his head by his. "Do you want to do this or not? You're not going to half-ass it after whining about it to me so much, are you?"

It broke Edgar out of the shock, and he raised his arms to return the gesture, hesitant and nervous. This wasn't something he could _do_. Scriabin would never allow this, he'd never allowed it before. But it was happening, somehow. It was happening and his brain still couldn't process it.

He could feel Scriabin's body heat, his heartbeat hammering along just off-set from his own, his breath along his shoulder where he held him. Edgar tried to stop shaking but he couldn't, and he wasn't sure after a while if Scriabin was also shaking or it was just his own.

"Can you hear anything?" Scriabin said, softly.

 _Scriabin?_ Edgar called out internally, something weak in it now. Physical sensation was overwhelming, knowing he was this close to him crowded his thoughts, his body kept trying to monopolize his attention, but Edgar tried to listen.

Just his heart, just his breath. Scriabin's arms were around him, he was hugging him.

_Scriabin? Scriabin? Can you hear me?_

"Edgar?"

"Just... a second. Try a little longer," Edgar managed to get out, although his breath was coming in very short. He thought Scriabin would push him away, would see through him because how could he not, but instead, he didn't move, breathing evenly in apparent focus.

They stayed like that for longer than either of them could find a reason for, and finally Edgar got up the fortitude to say something.

"I... I can't hear you. I can't hear anything." 

After a few moments, Scriabin let out a sigh.

"I don't understand..." Scriabin pulled away from him, shaking his head in thought. "I know this, I know this is the right way. I know it's there. Why isn't it opening...?" He looked back to Edgar. "You're _sure_ you're listening? You're calling?"

"Of course I am," Edgar said, in that same weak voice he didn't intend. "I _want_ to hear you."

"Right." Scriabin let out a breath, and there was silence between them for a moment. Scriabin's hands rested on his shoulders, and light glinted from his eyes as a car went by outside. "How badly do you want it, Edgar?"

Edgar swallowed with a sudden shiver. "Excuse me?"

"How badly do you want to hear me?" Scriabin sounded dead serious. His eyes were dark again, gone, and it was a relief since Edgar couldn't meet them at the moment.

"More than anything." That was too honest, but it just came out of him.

"Alright. Then we're going to have to try harder. Are you willing to try harder for this?"

Edgar nodded, and Scriabin gave him a small shake. "I'm warning you, if we do this and you decide to back out like a coward halfway, I'm going to be _pissed_ at you."

Edgar nodded again, without thinking.

"Alright." And Scriabin took in a deep breath. "Close your eyes and picture me the way I was." And something trembled into his words, honest pain he wanted to hide. "The way I am now will just... be distracting."

Edgar's heart hurt at the reminder, and he wanted that to be a sign that he could hear him, but it wasn't. Scriabin had an inch or two of dark hair on his scalp now, but there was still a long, long way to go.

"Think about me," Scriabin said, softly, and he moved one hand from Edgar's shoulder to the side of his face. "Picture me. Picture me in your mind as clearly as you can. Don't think about anything else."

Edgar closed his eyes and nodded, a kind of shivering tension building through him for some reason. Scriabin leaned in closer to him, slowly.

"Call for me," Scriabin whispered, and then something broke through his next words, something sincere that ached with deeper meaning. "Call my name."

Edgar felt his breath across his mouth, a moment of hesitation, then his lips pressed against his. For a moment he was frozen again, unable to react, unable to process what was happening, that Scriabin was doing this, that they were doing this.

 _Scriabin?_ he called inside for an explanation, something he could understand.

He couldn't move somehow, not until Scriabin himself did, breaking away just enough to take in some shivering breaths.

"What are you doing...?" Edgar barely managed to say, shaking now.

"Did you hear me?" Scriabin said, breathless and quiet. "Did you hear my voice?"

"I..." He struggled to find words, but none were coming, and he could feel Scriabin breathing fast against his skin.

"Did you hear me?"

"Why... why are you...?" Edgar somehow got out. Scriabin was still entirely too close, close enough that every movement he made set his nerves on end, sent anticipation shooting through him for something that seemed close to danger, but didn't exactly match.

Scriabin sighed in annoyance. "I've kissed you before. Do you not remember? It was to serve a greater point, but it still happened. I remember how you reacted... you had a complete breakdown over it..." And he was leaning back in towards Edgar again. "So, if anything is going to prompt an intense emotional response..."

Edgar had a few seconds to briefly wonder why Scriabin would want to do that before he was kissing him again, soft pressure that wiped his mind almost entirely clean. His hands, his mouth, it was all he could think of. Edgar felt so warm and something like afraid, he didn't understand it, he didn't understand this.

Edgar wanted, and he wasn't sure what it was he wanted at first, he couldn't really think clearly, and then he called out without thought, instinctual. _Scriabin?_

And there was silence against the white stream of nonsense going through his head now, the spikes and spikes of physical sensation that left him senseless and helpless. He could feel Scriabin, closer than he could ever remember, his touch gentler than he could ever recall, he could _feel_ him like that and that in itself was almost blinding, but...

But he could not hear him.

It felt too long and not long enough, and Scriabin broke away from him slowly, with the impression he could only just keep himself from coming back for more. Scriabin's hands trembled against his face, he could feel it going through his body. 

_Scriabin?_ to nothing.

"Haa..." A shivering breath, colored with something else he'd never heard before. "That was... more than I expected. Hm. It must be the body..." Talking to himself, and he shook his head to try and refocus. "Did you hear me?"

More than ever he wished Scriabin could just know, so at least he wouldn't have to say it out loud, but that was the whole problem.

"I... I didn't," Edgar mumbled.

Scriabin's breath caught in a way that made Edgar wince, and it took him a few seconds to regain his composure. "Goddamn it... I know I'm close..."

Edgar still wanted something but he couldn't put a name to it, and when Scriabin shifted his hands on his face just a little to adjust his hold, it blazed suddenly and still nameless.

"Alright... alright." Scriabin took in a deep breath, and it quavered like he'd been swimming too long. "We just have to keep trying."

Edgar opened his mouth to say something, but then Scriabin's pressed against it and all thought disappeared again. His hands were cool on his face, Scriabin was still doing this too _softly_ it felt like, and he wasn't sure where the thought had come from.

"Call my name," Scriabin breathed as he pulled away from him for just a moment, and then he was kissing him again and Edgar couldn't do anything else. There was more strength to it now, more confidence, something building. All he could focus on was Scriabin's body compared to his own, the heat he gave off, and how he was breathing, and how his heart was racing, and how his mouth felt against his own, and how he moved, and all of it was so important, he couldn't think of anything else.

 _Scriabin..._ he thought, although it was different now. It wasn't asking, it was encouraging, and it was something he would have said, had his mouth been free.

Scriabin kissed him harder, taking hold of the back of his head to pull him closer, ran his tongue along his lip until Edgar opened his mouth without thinking to let him in. He was making sounds he didn't intend and with each one, he heard Scriabin matching him. He was taking his time, exploring slowly and Edgar tried to focus, tried to bring that mental image into greater clarity, focused on visualizing who it was who was doing this, how it would feel, what was missing...

"Mn..."

He felt too warm, he felt too much of _some_ thing in his stomach, in his muscles, in his body that he didn't know and didn't trust, something he didn't understand, and Scriabin was still kissing him like that, and he ended up making a soft kind of whimper into his mouth, and at that Scriabin broke away from him with a deep gasp for air, and he was shaking, he was shaking so hard it seemed like he'd fall apart.

Scriabin tried to breathe, making faint sounds with each exhale, something desperate that he couldn't quite control, and Edgar reached out to hold him and for once, Scriabin didn't resist. He just put his arms around his shoulders to return the embrace.

Scriabin tried to take a deep breath, and it broke into a shivery little wanting sound, and he swallowed. "Jesus."

They held each other like that until heartbeats slowed down enough for thought to return. He felt Scriabin twitch, he thought he'd pull away, but in the end he kept his arms around him.

"Did you hear me?" Scriabin whispered, and Edgar tightened his grip, tension through where he'd shut his eyes.

"Did you hear me...?" Scriabin asked again, fainter this time.

"I..." Edgar didn't want to say it, he didn't want to admit it, every time that hope got stoked and fed the pain went through him anew, and he felt his eyes stinging, agony straining to work through his voice. "I... I'm trying, I'm really trying. I want to." And his voice broke, and he took a quick breath to try and steady it. "I really want to."

With Scriabin in his arms like this, it felt like he could just pull him back into him, like the boundaries between them were so thin that they could just _be_ the same person again, just like that.

"But you didn't," Scriabin finally said, and the disappointment in his voice just made Edgar feel worse.

They stayed like that, holding each other in a show of intimacy that Edgar couldn't recall from Before, but still paled in comparison. Scriabin was still _away_ from him in some fundamental way, for all that this was... and it was a lot, when he thought about it. He still couldn't understand it. Something in him was not accepting this, or seeing it clearly. Something wanted, but in the wrong direction.

"I know I'm close," Scriabin said, quiet by his ear, and he took a breath. "I know I can do this."

He pulled back a little, and he took Edgar's face in his hands. He still couldn't see his expression in the dark, although that was really better for both of them. The fuzzier the edges were in reality, the more he could fill them in with what he remembered.

"Focus, Edgar. You have to try. You have to give yourself to me," he said, and Edgar shuddered and he wasn't sure why. "Listen to my voice. _Listen_ to me. Remember what it was like. Remember what I sounded like."

"I'm... I'm trying to," Edgar barely managed to say. "I'm trying..."

"Close your eyes and focus. Don't think about anything else." And Edgar did, and he felt Scriabin draw his face closer again, his breath across his mouth. "Don't think about anything but me. Don't think about anything but my voice. Listen for it. Listen to me."

"Ah..." He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what, and Scriabin didn't give him the chance. Something in him felt fragile, something felt like it was on the edge of breaking and slicing him open.

"Focus," Scriabin whispered by his ear, and Edgar shivered powerfully at the sensation of it, his eyes tightly closed as he tried to match it to something unreal. "Focus on me. Only on me. Think of me. Think of my name. Think of my voice. Nothing else."

His ear was more sensitive than he thought - Scriabin's voice this close to it sent shudders all through him. It felt too sensitive and too delicate to trust him with, but Scriabin wouldn't let him go. One of his hands trailed down Edgar's neck, and he could feel his fingers shaking on his skin.

"Can you hear me?" Scriabin whispered to him again, and Edgar shook his head and his breath caught and for some reason he felt like crying, and he shoved it back down as hard as he could. He _wanted_ to hear him, he wanted to so badly and to have it denied just made it hurt more and more and _more_. "I know you can do it... I know you _want_ to do it."

That tone in his voice was not helping, and that fragile, shaking thing was getting closer to breaking, a bird thrashing itself against its cage until its bones would shatter. Edgar took in a sharp breath, he wanted to get away but for some reason he was powerless. He wanted to find something he understood, but he wanted to hear him more.

Scriabin breathed hot in his ear, and Edgar made a soft sound under his breath that he didn't want to make, and Scriabin pressed kisses along the side of his face back to his mouth, mumbling words for those few seconds his mouth was free. "You're mine, you belong to me. Everything you are belongs to me. Give in to me. Let me in. I know you want to. I know you can. Stop fighting and give in to me."

Edgar wasn't fighting, he was _trying_ , but he couldn't find any sense to say that. He was breathing hard, something like a whine on the crest of each one, desperate for something but it wasn't this physical sensation. That was doing something else to him that he didn't want to understand, but it wasn't doing what he _wanted_ it to be doing.

_Scriabin, Scriabin, please, please, hear me, I know you're there, please, say something..._

But there was nothing, nothing. 

"I _will_ have you." And what Scriabin was saying really wasn't helping either, it sent heat to his brain in a way that he didn't want or like, something that felt dangerous, something he couldn't allow. "One way or another, you'll give me what I want. You always do. You belong to me. You'll always belong to _me_." 

That frantic, fluttering thing beat against its bars faster, harder, pushed at something in him that he didn't think could bear it, against the silence that dragged emotion from places he didn't recognize. He could feel Scriabin's fingers tight in his hair, he couldn't tell their pulses apart, their breathing, they were so close and it only emphasized that this wasn't it, this wasn't _enough_ , it wasn't enough and it was, it was too much.

He made a noise into Scriabin's mouth, tried to get his body under control enough to push him away. "Stop... stop, stop, please..."

He didn't expect Scriabin to listen to him, he usually didn't. He pushed, and Scriabin for a moment tried to push back, but not enough. Edgar's face was burning and his eyes _hurt_ , and his breath came weirdly into his lungs.

Scriabin was breathing hard, tinged with something like frustration as well as confusion. "I told you, if you backed out..."

"I'm not... I'm not..." Something in him felt like it was breaking, like it'd slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the floor, and he didn't know what it was or why but it made him press one hand over one of his eyes, struggling to fight it back. "I just, I can't... I can't handle this, I can't take this right now. I can't, I can't take it not working anymore, please... please..." And his breath caught in what he could recognize as the start of a sob, and he strained with effort to fight it down. There was no _reason_ for it, he didn't _want_ to, that wasn't what would help right now, it wasn't even related.

Scriabin was quiet for a few moments. "...You didn't hear me."

"I'm trying." Edgar's voice broke, and he gritted his teeth to try and fight it back. "I'm trying, I want to, I'm trying and I want to and I just, I just- I can't do it anymore, not right now. I can't bear it. Please. Please..."

He was asking him for something else, but he didn't have to say it.

_Scriabin, Scriabin, please..._

Scriabin was quiet again, and his hand drifted down from Edgar's hair in touches that were too gentle and thoughtful for him. Any more of it and Edgar wasn't sure he could keep himself together.

"I know we're close..." Scriabin said softly. "I know I can do this. I know I can get you back. There has to be a way to do it..."

And under other circumstances, Edgar might have found that reassuring, but as it was all he could focus on was trying to stop himself from crying. He didn't even know why he wanted to, it didn't make _sense_ , and that just made it harder to stop.

Scriabin took hold of his chin, more to get his attention than to meet his eyes in the dark, and Edgar tried to even his breathing.

"I _will_ get this to work. I _will_ have you. And you _will_ do everything you can to make that happen."

It wasn't a question, not that Edgar really would have expected it to be one, and he nodded.

 _Scriabin?_ Still desperate, still calling, and the ache of it made him feel sick.

"Then we can stop for now." Scriabin let him go, although his touch lingered a little. "But we are _not_ done with this. Not by a long shot."

And in the dark, Edgar shivered and nodded again, without thinking.


	2. Experiment 2: Inverse Positions

The next day, when Edgar thought about what had happened, a ball of spiders in his memory he was hesitant to touch, the closest feeling he could connect to it was _fear_.

What they'd done had brought something to his attention, woken something up he didn't know how to put back to sleep. Some frightening, powerful thing that had previously been well-chained. Scriabin, perhaps, had had a hand in holding it back, back when they were together. Edgar didn't remember feeling anything like this, Before.

He was definitely afraid of it. He didn't know what would happen if he let it go free, just that he absolutely could not allow it. So much hinged on him maintaining control, and whatever it was that prompted this thing's resurgence meant it was very good at, perhaps even meant to take control away from him. 

Of course, Scriabin had also taken control away from him, but he knew Scriabin. He didn't know what this was. If Edgar gave in to it, he didn't know what would happen. It felt so enormous that it'd shatter whatever self-image he had.

He didn't tell Scriabin any of this.

Edgar struggled to get through the day, constantly thinking about what had happened and what was going to happen that night, even when he didn't want to. Scriabin kept looking at him in a way that made him uncomfortable, that caused something like that strange fear to go through him. He wasn't sure what it was he was anticipating, but it was powerful.

Night fell, time had run out and he couldn't stop shaking, something in him hollowed out in that cold way that came with an enormous amount of pressure to perform, which was not something he was used to or liked at all.

The two of them sat cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, Edgar leaning his weight heavy on his arms with his head down.

"So," Scriabin said. "Are you ready to try again?"

Usually these kind of questions were rhetorical. Edgar felt sick, a little, and he nodded.

They were both quiet for a moment, then Scriabin leaned away from him with his arms crossed.

"Don't look _too_ enthused about it. This was _your_ idea," Scriabin said with a bit too much sincerity.

"I know, I know." Edgar buried one hand in his hair, trying to keep his breathing even. "It just... I don't know, for some reason thinking about it is making me feel upset."

"Upset? Oh, it's making you _upset_?" With a bit more scorn than was really called for, and Scriabin held out his arms. "Oh, well, I guess we better give up then, if it's making you _upset_. _I_ thought you _wanted_ to reopen the link between us but I guess if it makes you _upset_ then we should just call the whole thing off. Need I remind you again, this was _your_ idea."

Edgar pulled back into himself with a frown. "I didn't say I wasn't going to do it, it just..."

"I asked you about how badly you wanted to hear me again. What did you say? Can you remind me?" Scriabin tilted his head away with him, unsmiling. "Refresh my memory for me, Edgar."

Edgar crossed his own arms in an unintentional mirror of him, looking away. "I said I wanted to hear you again."

"More than anything." Scriabin held up a finger. "Remember?"

"Yes, I remember." 

"So if you actually want it more than anything, it doesn't matter if it makes you _upset_ , does it?" Scriabin jabbed his finger at him, and Edgar rubbed his upper arm through the sleeve of his shirt.

"No, it doesn't," he said, even though he didn't really want to.

"Fine. That's settled then." Scriabin set his hands on his knees. "Now, are you ready? Close your eyes and focus. You need to _focus_ this time, Edgar."

"I _have_ been focusing." Edgar shut his eyes and didn't hide the irritation in his voice. "Maybe _you_ just need to try harder."

"Oh? Oh?" Scriabin sounded offended now, and Edgar could picture it clearly in his mind as he used to look, stepping back with a hand to his chest, his coat and hair fluttering dramatically. "You're blaming this on _me_?"

"You're the one who actually has all the weird powers."

"You don't know anything about me or how it works. You never have."

"Well, it's not working now."

"Look, _I've_ been trying. The problem has to be on _your_ end."

"We can't _both_ be trying because otherwise it'd-" And Edgar's voice caught, and that familiar ache blocked out everything else. He lowered his head, tightening his grip on his arm. "Otherwise it'd be working."

There was a long pause, then Scriabin made a displeased and thoughtful noise.

"There must be something we're missing. Something we haven't tried. There's a key to this, I'm sure of it." He heard motion, and in his head decided it was Scriabin rubbing his chin in thought. "Hmm..."

Edgar thought about Scriabin kissing him the previous night, how close they'd come to each other and still how far the distance between them yawned, and he shivered and felt warm and that same kind of frightened feeling. He didn't want to do that again, he told himself.

"Last night, I felt like I was close..." Scriabin was still talking to himself. "It could be..."

Silence while Edgar tried not to think about it.

"Alright. Let's try this. Last night, I was the one initiating contact. It may be that..." And he faltered for a moment, his voice shifting a little in one word before he straightened it out. "If we reverse positions, that might get it through."

It took a few seconds for it to process.

"Wait, you want me to...?" Edgar opened his eyes without thinking about it, leaning away. "You want me to...?"

Scriabin put his hands on his hips, frowning. "Oh, don't tell me we're going to do _this_ again. You said you wanted this more than anything, didn't you?"

"I... I do, but I'm not going to..." Something about the thought burned, something about it brought that sick feeling back again.

"Ugh. Of course. Of course we're going to do this again. This is about so much more and all you can think about is how traitorous your dick is."

"Scriabin!" Everything in him tensed with indignation.

"It's ridiculous! This is ridiculous, Edgar. That's what it is, isn't it? I already know it is. Here we are, here _I_ am doing you a huge favor in trying to cross the gap between us, something _you_ wanted, and all you can focus on is how it makes your dick do things you don't like."

"It does not-" 

"And the most ridiculous thing of all is that that's completely normal! Your reaction is _normal_ , and your completely inappropriate sense of pointless propriety is sending you into fits over it. You're not fourteen anymore, you're not going to get whipped for having an impure thought."

"It-" There were too many points he wanted to refute at once, it left him with no idea where to start.

"I can't believe you can sit there and think to yourself, _really_ think, that if someone makes out with you, you _shouldn't_ get a boner. I can't believe you're thinking that."

"I'm _not_ thinking that."

"You are, I already know you are. I don't need a line into your head to know that, I've heard it all my life. God, I can just see it now. You didn't even jack off after last night, did you? _I_ did."

"Scriabin!" His face was burning. "I don't need to hear that!"

"You see? You see how upset the idea makes you? That's absolutely ridiculous, Edgar. It's completely normal to have a sexual reaction to someone making out with you, regardless of any deeper reasons involved. It's purely a _physical_ reaction, if that makes it more palatable. Ugh." Scriabin pinched the bridge of his nose. "God, why'd you have to be a Christian? This is so _stupid_. When I get back in your head, I'm going to kick your ass."

He was doing well enough of a job of it outside, but Edgar wasn't about to tell him that. "You don't have any idea-"

"Shut up. Look," Scriabin pointed at him, suddenly serious, and that scattered his desire to argue. "Do you want this or not? Do you want to hear me again or not?"

_Scriabin?_ he tried, he always tried, even now he tried, and it hurt and hurt and hurt. 

Edgar nodded.

"Then you're going to have to _work_ for it. You have to man up and take charge for once in your life. I showed you how last night. Just do what I did."

The memory of it brought up another uncomfortable pulse of heat, and Edgar frowned and looked away. "I do want to do this, it's just..."

"What, do you need encouragement? Do you need me to be your gay cheerleader for you? It certainly wouldn't be the first time." Scriabin held up his hands, his fingers spread. "Edgar, Edgar, he's our man, if he can't do me no one can?"

"Scriabin!" Edgar snapped, angry and too warm, and infuriatingly Scriabin just laughed at him, as he always did. "That's not funny."

"Yes it is." Scriabin leaned against one hand, propped up on his leg. "Come on. It can't be that hard, can it? I thought you wanted this. It can't be that hard-" And his voice caught for a second in a sudden and unwelcome moment of sincerity, and he cleared his throat and looked away, forcing his smile to stay in place. "It can't be that hard to pretend you want me, can it?"

That hurt, all of a sudden, and Edgar's anger immediately faded. Scriabin kept staring at something else in an attempt at nonchalance.

_Scriabin?_

"I do want you," Edgar said quietly. "That's why I'm even doing this."

Scriabin glanced back at him, his eyebrows raised, then sat up straight to face him.

"Alright then," he said, with his hands on his knees. "Prove it."

Edgar wished there was some other way to do it than this. For all that Scriabin had said, it hadn't made that frightened, tight feeling go away. 

_Scriabin?_ he thought, and that reminded him. If this is what it took, then this is what he'd do. 

"Come on. I already showed you how," Scriabin said, smirking but his voice was soft.

"Okay, okay, just... stop rushing me." Edgar took a deep breath, steeling himself as he leaned closer towards him.

"Remember," Scriabin said, still soft. "You need to focus. You need to focus only on me. Just me, and nothing else. And close your eyes."

"I know, I know. You're not helping."

Edgar rested one hand on his shoulder, felt him jump a little, and he kept his eyes closed and focused as hard as he possibly could on what Scriabin should be.

_Scriabin?_

Edgar wanted to, he was going to... but his stomach felt so tight that it felt like he was going to be sick, and it hurt in a way that wouldn't let him move all the way forward. It just seemed too big to do at once.

He imagined Scriabin looking at him with that amused smirk he usually had, he imagined seeing himself in his glasses, he imagined him looking puzzled as Edgar closed his arms around Scriabin and pulled him into a hug.

"Mm?" Scriabin sounded just as he'd thought. "Aren't we a little past this point?"

"Just be patient," Edgar said, more annoyed than he wanted, and the physical sensation was beginning to crowd out his thoughts again. _Scriabin?_ "Are you doing it?"

"Hm... I guess that answers _that_ question," Scriabin said, mostly to himself, with a sigh. "You still can't hear a thing."

Edgar tightened his hold on him, and he noticed...

"You need to hug me back."

Scriabin started, and his arms went around him in return a little too quickly. "We've already done this before, it's not enough..."

"Doing this the other way around was _your_ idea. How do _you_ know it still won't work?"

"Whatever," Scriabin said, a bit uncomfortable and Edgar smiled. He rarely got him like that. "Can you hear me?"

Edgar listened, focused as hard as he could on that mental image, tracked their breathing and their heartbeats together, studied how Scriabin's arms felt around him, and then he let out a long sigh.

"I don't hear anything."

Scriabin let out a matching sigh. "I told you," he said, and it shouldn't have sounded that disappointed.

Following the same steps as the previous night, and that meant what came next...

This was it. He had to do this. If it meant that call inside him would finally get answered...

The two of them leaned away from each other, Edgar trying to take even breaths, and he could feel Scriabin's heartbeat beat faster under his hands on his shoulders.

"Just do what I did," Scriabin said, quieter than he would have expected. "Remember?" And his voice dropped further, a hint of hesitance. "Say what I said."

Directions to follow, a script with simple lines. He could manage that. Edgar could just turn his brain off and do it without thinking about how it made him feel, or what it meant, or anything like that. All he had to do was remember and copy. What Scriabin had said, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on his skin, how close he was, the ache when he called and called for him to no avail.

Just remember and copy.

He took a deep breath, pictured Scriabin in his head the way he should be, and he traced his hand up Scriabin's neck to his cheek. It felt very warm.

"Focus," Edgar said, partly to himself and partly to him. "You have to focus on me-"

Scriabin made a faint sound to interrupt him, and said, "Are _you_ focusing on _me_? Tell me." And he forced into it his more normal humor. "We can't have you getting distracted now, can we?"

Edgar got the distinct impression that Scriabin was taking advantage of an opportunity. Of course he wanted to hear that from Edgar. He always wanted to hear that.

"I'm thinking of you," Edgar said, his eyes still shut. "I'm listening. I'm listening for your voice."

"Good, good." Scriabin sounded just as pleased as he expected. "Can you hear me?"

As much as he didn't want to, Edgar shook his head, and Scriabin sighed.

"Scriabin?" He meant that to be internal, but even so, he felt Scriabin's skin warm a little under his hand. Of course he liked hearing his name. There was something about that that Edgar told himself wasn't satisfying. Follow the script. Remember and copy. "I..."

"Are you thinking of me...?" Scriabin said, softly, as Edgar drew closer to him.

"I am..."

He imagined him closing his eyes behind his glasses, although he'd never be able to tell. Imagined him waiting for it, anticipating it, his mouth slightly parted, his face red... was this how he had looked to Scriabin the night before? The thought made Edgar want something, made him feel like he had to do something in some strange way, a kind of urgency he wasn't familiar with.

He felt Scriabin's breath catch as their lips met, how tension went through him for a second or two before it faded. Edgar couldn't see the entire scope of it even as he was doing it, something in him rebelling, something in him fighting and he didn't know why. Scriabin was warm, he was surprisingly soft, Edgar was picking up details through a haze of static as his brain tried to shield him from it.

Edgar listened, listened, listened for his voice. He focused on it, tried to focus on his internal ear, on his thoughts, and he could hear the sound of their mouths moving, the heaviness of Scriabin's breath, felt him rest a trembling hand on his shoulder in return.

Listened, listened, listened, and his body was on autopilot, it was acting and maybe what he'd been fighting against had already taken control, he didn't know. Scriabin made a soft sound that sent some kind of burn through him, some kind of physical reaction he didn't understand that sparked heat all the way through. He wanted again, wanted in that wrong direction, tried to want what he was supposed to.

Edgar stopped for a second to breathe, to clear his head enough to try and listen harder, and Scriabin was close to panting when they were apart. Only a few inches had to be crossed to bring them back together, and that distance was so easy to close that he was tempted.

_Scriabin...?_

"What do you want...?" Scriabin whispered, a clear invitation, and even Edgar could pick up for what purpose.

"I want you," he whispered back, and he felt Scriabin shiver in a way that made everything feel tight. It wasn't the words, it was Scriabin's reaction to them that prompted the response, something in him that... 

_Scriabin, what is it? What is it I'm feeling? Just tell me._

But nothing.

"Again," Scriabin said in that same breathless voice, his arms around him. "Again."

"I want you," Edgar said, and again Scriabin shivered at it, again it sent heat through him and that urgency he didn't want to examine, that he didn't want to have. It was like what Scriabin wanted to hear just appeared in his mind and made it out of his mouth without much input. "I want only you."

Scriabin tightened his hold on him, shuddered this time with a faint wanting sound, and without thinking about it, Edgar closed the distance between them and he didn't know why. He wanted something but he wasn't sure what it was, but getting closer to him, hearing those sounds was part of it. And Scriabin was still making those sounds, and they got stronger as Edgar looped one hand around his back to pull him closer, and Scriabin ran his hands up into his hair, and everything was getting lost in a heat-haze.

_Scriabin?_ he called instinctively, because he wasn't thinking rationally anymore. He couldn't remember why they'd started doing this, just that whatever it was, they had to keep doing it. Something in him had to keep doing it... something in him _wanted_ to keep doing it, but he couldn't accept that.

"More," Scriabin breathed when they broke apart for a few seconds, and he kissed him again with that strange kind of hunger. "Keep going."

What else had Scriabin said last night? What was it that Scriabin wanted to hear? Some part of him could guess, some part of him knew, and he didn't know what part of him it was or where it had been hiding.

"Just you. Nothing else but you," Edgar said in those brief moments when his lips were free, when Scriabin would let him go. "Just you, Scriabin."

At his name, Scriabin made another one of those noises he was becoming addicted to, another bit of his rational sense leaving him. "Mh, fuck," before he was kissing him again, "fuck, yes. Just like that..."

Scriabin so often criticized and shot him down; hearing encouragement from him was surprisingly effective. At least, that's what Edgar told himself. At the moment it felt like a lot of his higher brain functions had shut off. Listen, listen, listen he told himself, and it was his instinct to do so that was doing it, because he certainly wasn't thinking it.

"You will hear me," Edgar echoed what Scriabin had said without thought. There was some kind of purpose to this that was rapidly becoming unclear, that felt really unimportant to how Scriabin felt in his arms, shaking and suddenly fragile. "I _will_ have you."

Scriabin tensed under his hands with a muffled moan, and pushed beyond sense and reason, all Edgar wanted was to push him further, and all he could think of was just echoing things back to him, a script he could barely read through steam-clouded glasses.

"You're mine, you belong to me..."

Scriabin made a long and shivering, desperate kind of groan, and he pushed against his shoulders. "Ngh, fuck, fuck, just..."

Edgar shook himself out of the haze enough to let him go, and the two of them broke apart. Scriabin pressed one hand to his head, shaking like a leaf.

"Jesus. Fuck," Scriabin mumbled to himself, and a powerful shudder went through him all at once without Edgar even touching him, making him grit his teeth. "Ngh. Okay. Okay. Hold on."

"Are you alright...?" Edgar said quietly, and it felt like he was burning and everything in him was quivering, waiting for something, wanting something but he was not going to hear it.

_Scriabin?_

"I just... I just need a second." Scriabin was still breathless, his teeth gritted in apparent frustration, and another full-body shudder went through him with a muffled curse. "This body is... a lot more sensitive than yours was. It's getting... overloaded."

Was it his body, or something else? Edgar tried to think, tried to clear whatever it was that was fuzzing his thoughts with want for _some_ thing. "That's how I felt last time... it's a lot, isn't it?" It felt stupid to say it somehow.

Scriabin made a noise that mostly indicated that he didn't want to agree with him.

There was silence for a little while, just the two of them breathing, and Edgar dreaded the question that he knew was coming.

"...You didn't hear anything, did you," Scriabin said, eventually.

_Scriabin?_ he called, and the pain made him lower his head. That was answer enough.

"Damn it... damn it," Scriabin said, mostly to himself, and he hid his eyes behind one hand. "I really thought... I was really trying... I don't understand..."

That sick, sinking feeling was back again, a kind of fear that felt too big to give a name. It bubbled up inside him until it just came out. "What if..."

Even saying it felt like giving it too much power, and Scriabin took in a breath and strengthened his voice.

"No, we _can_ do this. I know I can do this. I _will_ do it. I'm not going to give up. I know it can work. I _know_ it can."

That was very like Scriabin, that was something familiar in the face of that strangely vulnerable one he'd been holding a second ago. This he knew.

"You really want it to work...?" Edgar said, for some reason.

"No shit I want it to work," Scriabin said, a bit annoyed and without much thought. "Why would I even be doing this if I didn't want it to work?"

"So, you want to... be connected with me again."

"No shit?" Scriabin gave him a disbelieving look. "Are you really _that_ stupid?"

"You said you were just curious."

"You didn't really believe that, did you?" Scriabin still sounded too irritated to think his words through more carefully. "How gullible _are_ you?"

It took a few moments for what Scriabin had said to sink in, then he looked away with a muffled curse under his breath. There was something warm in Edgar's chest now, something relatively uncomplicated and yet still difficult to touch. Scriabin _did_ miss him, Scriabin _did_ want what they had back, they _did_ feel the same.

"Well..." Scriabin said, looking down and trying for his normal confidence. "If this isn't working... then we're going to have to try harder."

Edgar swallowed, and a sudden rush of dread left his mouth dry. Scriabin turned his attention to him, flicked his eyes over his body, and then leaned in closer to him. His hand moved, low.

"Might as well make the most of the situation," he said, his hand sliding down Edgar's hip, and Edgar put his hands on his shoulders.

"Don't- what are you-"

"Really? Are you _really_ going to do this again? Didn't I just explain this to you?" Scriabin sounded more than a little frustrated.

"I don't see what this has to do with anything-"

"Well, this is a new field of study, as you put it. Who knows what actually is and isn't related?" Scriabin huffed, and when he moved his hand back to the button of Edgar's jeans again, Edgar grabbed his wrist to stop him. Scriabin tried to break free without much effort, then he let out an exaggerated sigh. "Ugh. Fine. You can do _me_ instead, if that's easier for you."

"I'm not going to do that either!" Edgar could feel himself going red at the suggestion of it, and Scriabin gave him a disbelieving look.

"Didn't I _just say_ that this kind of reaction is normal? You won't let me touch you, you won't touch me, what do you want us to do then, Edgar?"

"I don't know!" Some part of him did but he did not want to listen to it. "I don't want to do anything with this!"

"Yes you _do_." Scriabin tilted his head to one side, drawing out the syllables sarcastically. "You were all over me just a few minutes ago, you definitely wanted _that_."

"I wanted to _hear_ you, I didn't want..."

"Oh, I think you wanted to _hear_ me, alright." Scriabin was grinning at him now. "Don't think I didn't notice how you reacted."

"You-" Edgar struggled to think of words. "It's not like you were doing that on _purpose_ , they sounded-"

Scriabin shrugged. "It didn't have to be _intentional_ for me to notice. You know, normally making out with someone involves _both_ parties, it's not just you doing something and then someone doing something to you."

"Ugh." Edgar hid his face behind one hand, letting Scriabin go in the process. "Don't phrase it like that..."

"What, do you prefer heavy petting? We haven't even gotten _that_ far. Are you sure all this virginal fluster is even _necessary_ right now?"

"This isn't about that!" Normally Scriabin's needling would just irritate him, but something about this was making him upset. "It's about... it's about hearing you, and I still _can't_ , and..."

He thought Scriabin would keep pressing him, but instead he was quiet for a few moments, which was a relief. That fragile thing was straining again, something felt dangerous, something felt on the edge of breaking again and he didn't want that.

"I'm sure there's something we're missing," Scriabin said, thankfully thoughtful now. "Some aspect of this that we're overlooking. It _feels_ very close, when we're doing these kind of things... does it feel close to you?"

Edgar considered. "...Sort of, but... it's not enough, it's not the same. And that kind of makes it worse, in a way."

"Right," Scriabin said, smoothly, which made Edgar pause. For all the ease Scriabin projected with all this, what was going on internally? More than ever, Edgar wanted to know. He wanted to just reach out and know.

_Scriabin?_

"Emotional reactions should be a key to it..." Scriabin tapped his chin in thought. "They should be easy to see... I should be able to follow them, but it's still not enough..." He looked back up to Edgar. "You said you wanted this. That you wanted to hear me."

"Yes..."

"And you're willing to do whatever it takes to do that, right?"

"Yes," Edgar said, and he could feel it settling over him, the sinking feeling of agreeing to something he knew he was going to regret.

"If we don't know what will work, if we don't know what might break through... then we have to try everything."

Edgar nodded, although he felt sick.

"God, you don't have to look so _afraid_." Scriabin frowned. "This kind of thing is supposed to feel _good_. Do you even think about all the yarn you've tied to this completely harmless, natural thing in your head? No, of course you don't. You don't even know it's there." And he sighed. "That's what _I'm_ for."

Edgar gave him a wary look.

"Alright, _I'll_ do it this time, because I know you won't." Scriabin shifted closer to him, his hands drifting back down to Edgar's jeans. "You know, it's not like we haven't done this _before_ technically."

"What? What are you talking about?" Edgar was so baffled and offended by the idea that he completely ignored what Scriabin was doing, went along with where he moved and adjusted him without thinking.

"Alright, maybe my phrasing wasn't _exactly_ precise. It's not like I haven't seen _you_ do this before."

"Do _what_ before?" Edgar knew yet couldn't say.

"Edgar." Scriabin gave him a level look. "I was with you _literally_ all the time. _All_ the time. That includes whenever you jacked off. That _can't_ be a surprise to you."

It wasn't, but that didn't mean he liked the idea at all. "You- you weren't- you never-"

"I was with you _all the time_ ," Scriabin said, rolling his eyes, or so he assumed by his tone. One of the first things they'd done was get him his glasses back, although now Edgar didn't know why. It made moments like this so frustrating. "I didn't just magically leave the room so you could preserve your virtue, not that you ever had any of that to begin with."

"You never said anything!"

"Of course I didn't. Hell, why would I? Those thirty or so seconds were the only time you didn't feel like total shit all the time. So sue me if I decided to enjoy it when it happened. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You could... you could..." For some reason it was hard to get out, something like distaste sticking to it. "You could 'enjoy' it?"

Scriabin gave him that look again. "Edgar. I could read your thoughts, your emotions, your memories, everything. I had access to _every_ thing. Of course I could experience whatever you were experiencing, if I wanted to."

And Edgar recalled Scriabin mentioning experiencing pain as well, when Edgar had been hurt. After a certain point, he doubted that it relied on whether or not Scriabin _wanted_ to feel those things. They'd become so tangled in each other that they didn't have a choice.

_Scriabin?_

"Alright. Now." Scriabin set his hands on Edgar's hips, and Edgar brought himself back to the present. He'd brought them very close together, he'd undone both zippers, and Edgar couldn't actually get himself to look down any more than that. He couldn't actually look at it, for some reason. "I can already tell that you're not going to be _any_ help with this. So all I need you to do is try to _focus_ , Edgar. Just close your eyes and try to hear me. Focus on me, on my voice, on what we had and what we used to be."

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you think, you stupid idiot?" Scriabin snapped at him. "Your job right now is to _focus_ and not have a completely unwarranted and unjustified panic attack over something that _should_ be pleasurable. Can you _handle_ that for me, Edgar?"

"I'm not an-"

"Close your eyes and _focus_." Scriabin pressed one hand over Edgar's eyes. "Just _listen_. Listen to me for once. Listen for my voice. _Try_."

Edgar shook his head faintly to get out from under it, and then Scriabin's other hand closed around him, and that cleared all thought away immediately.

_Scriabin_ that voice called, this time desperate and pleading for something he refused to give a name to. Scriabin's hand closed around the both of them, pressed them together, and something in him refused to process it, refused to understand what was happening. _Scriabin, Scriabin-_

Everything sort of fell apart into a series of unconnected, unaligned images. At some point he put his arms around Scriabin's shoulders, he buried his head into his neck, he was gasping hard and sensation was too powerful and too hot to withstand. He could hear Scriabin make those same sounds he'd heard before, which didn't help, and he could feel his arm around his back, and the movement of his hand, and the movement of his soft skin against his own, both of them overheated, and then before he knew it, everything whited out and he was clutching Scriabin to him as hard as he'd ever held anything with a deep and long gasp.

He wasn't sure if he heard Scriabin make the same, Edgar was lost in it so completely. All he could hear was the rush of his blood in his ears, his heart pounding along his skin, and his body was shaking with the strength of it.

He thought, he was supposed to listen, he reached out desperately for it, for something that was understandable in the face of what had just happened, and his fingers met nothing, there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

Usually there was a sort of pleasant haze after this kind of thing, even if it only lasted for a minute or so, and to reach out so desperately afterwards for something and not find it inverted it completely. That thing within shattered again, and how many times could it break? He wanted, he wanted, he wanted and it hurt so much, it hurt more than ever.

Edgar's breath caught, he tried to fight it down, and he expected Scriabin to chide him, mock him, insult him, tell him not to feel whatever he was feeling, or even just ask him that question he'd come to hate.

Instead, Scriabin said nothing, and he moved his hand from where it was between them to hold onto Edgar in return, and again he got that strange, fragile sense from him, something in his shivering that spoke of something raw and unfamiliar. 

Scriabin didn't have to ask. He already knew.

They held onto each other, desperate, confused, hurting in mirror of each other, and still, an unimaginable distance stretched between them, impossible, impossible.

_What if I never hear you again?_ it finished in his head, and Edgar bit back a sob, and Scriabin tightened his arms around him, still trembling.


	3. Experiment 3: Emotional Intimacy

Everything inside was just getting _worse_.

Edgar didn't know what to think or what to feel - he couldn't even think clearly about what had happened the previous night, pressing suffocating shame over it whenever it even crossed his mind. He buried it over and over and over again but it kept rising, it refused to die.

He didn't want this, Edgar told himself, he didn't want whatever this was. He wanted what was past it, what was beyond it, what the end result of it would be. All of this... in the middle of it, he didn't want that. Edgar told himself that over and over again, because that made sense, and he told himself he believed it, he was firm and refused to budge and he felt _awful_. He was tense and sick throughout most of the day, constantly on alert, constantly about to bolt from something he didn't even know, constantly about to snap under the weight of it all. He was fighting a grand battle internally, something so deeply important and significant and no one even knew, no one could see and that just made it worse. It wasn't like Scriabin observing his turmoil would have helped in any way, hell, Scriabin probably would have made it worse, but Edgar wanted him there anyway and he didn't know why. He still didn't know _why_.

Edgar wanted some kind of witness to all of this, someone who could step back and understand what he couldn't, who could provide an outside perspective that would just make it all _stop_. Wanting that made sense to him. 

Wanting someone to be with him just for the sake of having them there, even if they were no help at all... that didn't make sense. But that was still an element to it, as much as he didn't want it to be, and it didn't help.

Scriabin looked at him during the day, sometimes with an interest that made him very uncomfortable, and sometimes with something like sadness that made him uncomfortable in a different way. Was Scriabin calling for him, when he looked like that? Edgar still called for him all the time, a constant refrain through the day. Was Scriabin doing the same now?

Scriabin _wanted_ this, he'd said as much, and Scriabin had always worked extremely hard to get what he wanted. Scriabin didn't accept failure and he didn't accept resistance. He would destroy himself or anything in his way to get what he wanted, the price of his actions be damned. All that mattered was bending whatever it was to his will.

It didn't matter how Edgar felt about any of this. Scriabin wasn't going to stop now. He would see this through the end, and he'd make sure Edgar did the same. And, for how awful all of this made him feel, how much Edgar didn't want _this_... 

Edgar didn't want to stop trying. There was a chance, there _had_ to be a chance that it could work. And if it worked, if they could just reopen their connection to each other, then it all would be worth it. Everything would be fixed. All those nebulous bad feelings, that wanting, that loneliness, the questions, the fear, all of it would be gone, and it'd all have been worth it. It'd have to be.

The day grew dark like a death sentence, that heavy apprehension in his stomach getting worse as night fell. Edgar felt cold, very cold, he couldn't stop shaking, he could barely eat and he kept reminding himself of their goal, the _real_ point of all this. He reminded himself of what they were actually trying to do, what they actually wanted. What he actually wanted. All he could rely on was repetition, and it didn't work.

Scriabin didn't follow him when he went to bed, not at first, which just made him more anxious. Edgar already could barely think about what he knew was going to happen... he was not in a state to deal well with unexpected turns. He sat on his bed with a book about cats in history and tried to read, but the letters didn't resolve into any words. His thoughts kept returning to the shadowy things from last night, what had happened, how it felt - it was too much to touch and too much to think about and it fought against the filter of his mind, fought to be recognized and he couldn't, he _couldn't_. He was so sick of this feeling, he wanted the hammer to fall so it could just be _over_.

Finally, mercifully, Scriabin came to join him, although he didn't look too happy himself. He looked Edgar over, appraising him without smiling, and a small spike of adrenaline raised the hair on Edgar's arms. Had he done something wrong? What was it? Edgar frantically searched through the events of the day in his head for mistakes, tried to figure out what to prepare himself for.

_Scriabin?_

After a long moment, Scriabin looked down to the carpet and shook his head. He ran one hand over what passed for his hair now before he sat down beside Edgar on the bed, leaning back heavily against the headboard.

"You didn't hear anything," Scriabin said, with a long sigh. "Nothing all day."

Edgar set his book to one side with a matching sigh, still tense. "Nothing. And you didn't hear me either, I assume."

Scriabin brought up his knees, propped up one arm and leaned on one hand as he stared across the room. "There has to be a way. I know there is. We just have to keep trying."

Things had already escalated entirely too far for Edgar's liking, and the sinking dread he felt at those words confirmed that he knew where they were going. He didn't want that, he _really_ didn't want to do that, he told himself. If he already felt this bad now, he was just going to feel worse if they did. 

It might be the price he'd have to pay eventually, but he didn't want to pay it now.

"I was thinking..." Edgar said, looking away and his eyes fell on the Scriabin toy on his nightstand, and he snapped his attention back to the bed sheets. "Your first thought was that physical intimacy would lead to mental intimacy, correct?"

Scriabin turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, a little intrigued but mostly tired. "Actually deciding to do some of the work for once? That's a change."

"But so far, it hasn't worked... the way that we want it to." It did _something_ to Edgar he didn't want to name, something that twisted inside him painfully. He did not want that. "And I know that... there are things we haven't done, but... before we go that far, I was thinking..."

"God, you're so _scared_ of it," Scriabin said, in that same tired, distant voice. "You're so fucked up about sex. Do you even realize? It's not even that big a deal." Although from the tone in his voice, it was definitely a big deal to him. Edgar could still remember the sounds he'd made, as much as he didn't want to.

"My point is..." Edgar didn't want to go over that again - they'd done it already, and it didn't help at all. "My point is that there are other forms of intimacy. We haven't tried emotional intimacy, for example."

" _Emotional_ intimacy?" Scriabin said, grimacing with distaste.

"You said you wanted to prompt an emotional response before, the..." He coughed. "The first time we-" He gave up on that sentence. "I recall you saying at one point that emotions are easier for you to... follow? I don't know how it works. But, if emotions are truly relevant to what we're trying to accomplish, it's possible that if we're... honest with each other, that may allow us to... connect, the way we used to."

"Wow," Scriabin said, still grimacing. "I do _not_ want to do that."

"Well, I didn't want to do... most of what we've done." Edgar frowned at him in return. " _You_ said we had to try at this."

"Oh, you wanted to," Scriabin said, although it wasn't with much strength.

"You're not seriously going to back out now, after everything you pushed me into so far?" Edgar was a little righteously offended now. "Does the thought make you _upset_? Should we give up because you're _upset_?"

" _Okay_ , okay." Scriabin waved him off, grumbling. "I _get_ it. Ugh. Damn it. I didn't think I'd..." And he sighed. "Go ahead and feel smug about it if you want."

Edgar did feel a little smug about turning his words around on him, but didn't say that. That didn't mean he was going to stop though. "You're going to have to meet me halfway here. I can't do everything for you."

"Ugh, God!" Scriabin leaned his head back and groaned at the ceiling. "You're not clever in doing this, you know."

"Not as much fun from the other side, is it?" Edgar found himself smiling, and Scriabin made another annoyed noise and flopped down dramatically onto his back.

"Ugh, don't get self-righteous on me. I'm not in the mood for an after-school special, complete with moral about judge not lest ye be judged, or whatever." Scriabin moved his glasses out of the way to rub at his eyes. "Just do or say whatever you want, get this over with. It's not like you even know what emotional intimacy is anyway."

Edgar wanted to refute that, but he had a point. It was something that Edgar had never been very good at, not even with someone who'd literally lived in his mind, which you'd think would make it easier. The vast majority of his efforts at it had ended in rather discouraging failure.

However... his previous attempts hadn't been made under these particular circumstances, where Scriabin was supposed to listen and cooperate, even if it was against his will. Surely that would have to change something. He didn't know what success would entail, but maybe it was _possible_ now.

"The gall of it, sitting there all high and mighty, pretending like you've never had a childish fit about your emotions like you have fits about _every_ normal aspect of human existence, like you don't have fits over the fact you even _have_ emotions at _all_ , this is _ridiculous_..." Scriabin was talking to himself in the meantime, apparently bored as Edgar considered what to say. He never got tired of the sound of his own voice.

"Well... how do you feel about me?" Maybe if Edgar just started somewhere, the rest would follow naturally. "About doing this?"

Scriabin paused, then turned his head to look at him, one hand on his forehead. "Oh no, I had to start things on the physical side. _You_ start this one. I can't do everything."

It was an obvious feint, but whatever. In the end, it wouldn't matter who went first, as long as they were still talking. Edgar just had to find some place to begin.

_Scriabin?_

"Well... I've told you before that I miss you." And Edgar looked over him to see Scriabin rolling his eyes (he assumed) so hard that his head moved with it as well. "And _don't_ start with how you don't believe me, or I'm lying, or any of that. We're supposed to be _connecting_. You have to take me at my word."

"Uuuugh." Scriabin lifted his glasses to cover his eyes. "I'd rather have you fuck me than listen to this."

"I'm not-" Edgar bristled with warm indignance, then managed to shake it off. He tapped his forehead. "Do you want to hear me again or not? Do you want to reach back in here or not?"

Scriabin's mouth twisted in an internal struggle, for a second Edgar thought he'd really just get up and leave, but then he just let out an exaggerated sigh. " _Fine_ , fine. Just dump all of it on me, who cares."

"Scriabin, you need to _listen_."

"I _am_ listening."

"You need to _really_ listen. And you have to keep calling. You have to stay focused."

Scriabin made an annoyed sound, one elbow up as he kept his hand over his eyes, but that was all.

Edgar took a deep breath. His hands were shaking, he still felt tense and jittery, but it wasn't the same as the previous night. This, he felt like he could handle, even though it was just as unknown to him. "Anyway... I do miss you, like I said."

"Uuugh."

"Scriabin!" Edgar bapped Scriabin's elbow, knocking his hand from his face. "If you're not going to contribute, then at least shut up while I'm doing it!"

"Fine! Fine." Scriabin crossed his arms and looked away with a sulky huff. "I can't believe this..."

"Do you want to reconnect or not?"

"I said fine! Go ahead already."

"Try and focus." Edgar leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms himself, frowning. "As I was saying... I do miss you, even though you're right here. That's part of what makes this so hard... I know it doesn't make sense, you're not _gone_ , but I can't get that feeling to stop. I keep trying to, but I can't. You're right here, but my," he stumbled on the word for a second, "my heart won't listen to reason."

Scriabin, thankfully, didn't say anything, although he didn't think that would last.

_Scriabin?_ and still there was nothing.

"I suppose that's not the first time it wouldn't listen when it comes to you, though. I should be used to it by now, it'd make sense if I was..." Edgar shook his head. "But nothing makes sense lately. I know you can't hear me, I'm reminded of that every time you don't respond, and yet I keep doing it. I don't want to, but I can't stop. I just... keep calling out your name, I keep trying to talk to you." His gaze drifted across the room, and landed on the toy by the bed again. It remained motionless, as always. "...I know this is bad, but, sometimes... I imagine what it'd be like to talk to you again. I play it out in my head, like you're really there." And he turned back to Scriabin, holding up his hands just in case. "I always stop myself when I realize I'm doing it though. It feels like a really bad idea."

"Yeah." Scriabin stared up at the ceiling, and his voice strangely lacked emotion. "That would definitely be a bad idea."

He wasn't angry, at least, and it wasn't as unhelpful an interjection as it could have been. Edgar swallowed and tried to continue his train of thought. "I don't know why I want to hear you again so badly. It's not like it was really good for me while you were in there. We both remember how ugly it got between us at points."

Scriabin made the kind of huff that usually came with an eyeroll.

"But, I still want you back. I really want to know _why_ , but I can't figure it out. It's... frustrating. So much of this is frustrating." Edgar let out a breath. "It's so hard to call and call and call and never get a response. It's like... someone cut off my hand, and I keep trying to do things with it anyway, but it's not there anymore." Briefly, Edgar got the disturbing image of Johnny cutting off his hand, and he shook it away. Not right now, he had to focus. "You were a key part of me, in some way. Even if you were just inside."

"What a compliment. I'm your favorite kidney."

"Scriabin," Edgar said, low and warning, and Scriabin rolled his eyes again and looked away. "Do you want to do this or not?"

"I do, I do."

"Then stop being a baby about it and _focus_."

"I am not-" And a familiar match to his own indignance that Scriabin managed to fight back down. "I _am_ focusing," Scriabin said instead, with a frown.

"Well, I don't hear anything yet."

"I guess you have to talk about your feelings harder," Scriabin said, in a heavily sarcastic voice.

"Goddamn it. I can't believe you can't even do this." Edgar rubbed his forehead, then thought about it a bit more. "I can't believe this is outside your capabilities."

"It is not-" Just as he expected, Scriabin sat up, his face a little red. "This isn't outside my capabilities, I can do this-"

"Then prove it and be _quiet_."

Scriabin opened his mouth to say something, apparently realized what he'd been baited into, then crossed his arms and thumped back against the headboard with an irritated grumble.

"You know..." Edgar had been doing all the work so far... maybe he had to try a different angle. "Why is this so hard for you? It's like pulling teeth for you. Why does it make you so uncomfortable?"

Scriabin opened his mouth for what Edgar was sure was going to be an instant denial, and Edgar cut him off with a point of his finger. "Remember, we're supposed to be honest with each other. If you want to reopen the link between us, we _have_ to talk about how we feel. There isn't any other way to get emotional intimacy. And before you say that there's no reason to think this will work, there's no reason to think that physical intimacy will work either. You just want to do that because it's easier for you than this. Well, you said this was going to be hard!" Edgar held his hands out. "It can't just be hard for _me_ , sometimes it has to be hard for _you_ too."

"I know, I know, stop lecturing me." Scriabin scowled at the wall, closely drawn in to himself. " _You_ said last night not to rush you. Maybe show me the same courtesy."

Edgar forced himself to take a long breath, lowering his hands. Empathy, this was about empathy, a real emotional connection required empathy. He didn't know _why_ this was so hard for Scriabin, but it was clearly difficult, even if he threw up smokescreen after smokescreen to try and hide that fact.

"...How to explain this..." Scriabin still wasn't looking at him. "Do you know how difficult it is to keep secrets when you exist within someone else's mind? Do you know how difficult it can be to keep anything you're thinking, or feeling, or planning to yourself when someone permeates every aspect of your being?"

"Yes," Edgar said, completely monotone. "I know exactly how that feels."

A moment, and Scriabin winced. "Right. Damn it. Okay." He scratched at his scalp, and even now his hand still tensed when it didn't encounter the long hair he expected. "Got to try this from a different angle."

Edgar waited, and some rational and logical part of himself asked him _why_ he wanted to go back to what they had, it was terrible. It was _awful_. He'd wanted nothing but freedom back then. Why was he even doing this?

And yet, that voice inside called and ached and called against all reason. _Scriabin?_

"You remember when I told you about my memories? My early memories." Scriabin gestured with one hand, although he was staring at the blanket and not at Edgar. "How I started as you, then was a detached you, then became myself. Developing an identity when you're inside of someone else, when you can't escape them in any kind of way, when they define everything about how you experience the world and your self, is a little complicated. I'm sure I don't have to remind you of how blurry the borders between us were, particularly when I was..." He squinted in search of a word. "Not as developed."

_Scriabin?_ he kept trying.

Nothing.

Scriabin hummed in thought. "In order to establish a sense of differentness, of _self_ ness, to protect that concept, I had to define some boundaries. Some kind of line that couldn't be crossed."

"You didn't respect any of _my_ boundaries," Edgar said, which was better than his first thought, which was that he hadn't had any at all back then.

"You were in a _slightly_ more advantageous position than me," Scriabin gave him a pointed look, and this resentment was familiar. "You came first, and I came second, and I had to _make_ a place in you. That's a _little_ difficult to do, Edgar."

"I don't know why you expect sympathy from me about this." Edgar matched his resentment, and it was old but still one he knew well. "I didn't _invite_ you into my brain, you just forced your way in. I'm not going to apologize for it being _difficult_ for you."

"I don't want one of your _apologies_ , I already know they're worthless," Scriabin growled. " _You're_ the one who said we had to do this emotional honesty thing, even though we both know how this always ends, and what a surprise, I tell you something and you just throw it in my face, like you always do. This is the exact problem. You put on a big show about how noble and kind you are to reach out to me, oh what an innocent and selfless soul Edgar is, and then you slap whatever I offer you to the ground because it isn't what you wanted to hear."

"That's what _you_ do-" And Edgar stopped himself, rubbing at his temples. "Okay. Okay. We aren't going to do this right now. We're going to connect. We're going to be emotionally intimate. I'm going to listen. Go ahead."

Scriabin made a confused kind of noise - deliberately giving Scriabin the floor wasn't something that Edgar had done often, if at all. As easy (and tempting) as it was to just bicker into the night, that wasn't what they were trying to do. That wasn't what Edgar was going to let Scriabin do.

"Why is it so hard for you? I won't interrupt this time."

_Scriabin?_

Scriabin stared at him warily, his brow furrowed. 

"Go ahead," Edgar said, and leaned forward.

A few more long seconds went by, and Edgar again wondered if Scriabin was just going to give up and leave, and he was trying to work out a plan of action for if that happened when Scriabin spoke again. "...As I was saying, in those kind of circumstances, what little you have becomes very valuable." He paused in thought. "On a purely practical level, a lot of the time sharing such things just didn't serve my purposes. What I needed from you rarely required any kind of emotional leverage from _my_ end... I could use _your_ personal damage to do what I wanted with you, I didn't need to use anything of my own."

It was _very_ hard not to say something.

"And for a long time, you weren't even interested in whatever I was going through." And his tone got darker. "Whatever I was feeling at any given point was irrelevant, compared to what was bothering you, or what you were dealing with, or whatever moral quandary you'd gotten yourself stuck in this time. As time went on, and you..." Scriabin hesitated, something in him going tense like a switch was flipped, and he forced it away. "As we got more enmeshed with each other and it got harder to maintain certain kinds of _distance_... I could sense that you were _trying_ to access things of mine that were previously just my own. Things that had significance that I doubted you'd appreciate, and that you certainly wouldn't handle with the care required. We'd established a relationship, we knew our places in it, and you trying to... _add_ something to it, well. I didn't like that."

Scriabin kept staring at the wall, resting his head on one hand propped up on his leg again. He looked and sounded distant. "I didn't like you doing that at _all_."

Edgar wanted to say something extremely badly, but forced it back as hard as he could. Was any of that true? He told Scriabin to take him at his word, and Edgar had to do the same.

_Scriabin?_

Still nothing.

"It wasn't like I had a bad memory," Scriabin said, still refusing to look at him, still in that thoughtful pose. "I remembered how you behaved over the entire course of our relationship. I knew exactly how you felt, the sincerity of your hatred and anger, the disgust you had for me, your general untrustworthiness, I knew all of it. So, I knew where your attempts to change things between us would end, and I wasn't going to be your fool for you. I stuck to my plans, and I kept my secrets, and I doubt much would have changed, except..."

Edgar looked down at his hands. He was wearing his watch, he noticed now.

"Well, you know," Scriabin said, eventually, and they were quiet for a time.

_Scriabin?_

"And then," Scriabin burst out suddenly, forcefully cracking whatever had settled over them. "And then, after all of that, you turned on me. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. "In a second, my one moment of weakness, the _one second_ I let my guard down, I let myself think that you-" And he stopped himself with a frustrated shake of his head. "You made me regret it." And he didn't like the current tone of his voice, and he forced it to be louder, more dramatic. "You made _me_ regret it! Me! You made _me_ regret something! Do you know how fucked up that is, Edgar?"

It wasn't the first time Scriabin had yelled at him about this, and on some level, Edgar had suspected it would come down to this. It so often did.

"So you want to know why it's hard for me to talk to you about how I'm _feeling_?" With sarcastic contempt on the word. "It's because of _that_. That's your answer. Is that enough emotional honesty for you?"

_Scriabin?_

After a few seconds, Edgar shook his head with a sigh. "I know, I know. And... I still can't hear you."

"Hmph." Scriabin crossed his arms. "I told you this wouldn't work."

"Well, that's just _why_ you don't want to." Edgar wasn't about to let this go. He couldn't. The alternative... he didn't want to do that unless he had to. "That isn't what you're actually hiding. It's just _why_ you're hiding it. Why do you have to hide it at all?"

"I can't trust you with it."

"Why not? What do you think I'm going to do?"

"I _just_ told you."

"The situation is a _little_ different now, Scriabin. That's the whole point of this." Edgar held out his hands. "We aren't in the same body anymore, there isn't anything I can take away from you. Your life and identity are entirely yours."

Scriabin just looked at him, unhappy and somewhere near conflicted.

"Do you want to be connected again or not?" Edgar said, and he didn't break eye contact. "Do you want to try or not? How badly do you want it?"

Scriabin looked away.

"How badly do you want to hear me again?" Edgar let his hands fall. "Is it worth whatever you're keeping secret?"

Scriabin kept staring at the wall, and he made an uncomfortable, unhappy sound. "Are you sure we can't just fuck each other instead of doing this?"

Every time he said that, a jolt of heat and embarrassment went through him that sent his thoughts scattering. "Scriabin!"

"What? You were just badgering me about not giving up. _You're_ not going to give up, are you? Is hearing me again worth a fuck to you?"

"Stop... saying it like that." His face was burning, and Edgar looked down at the blankets. He gripped them tightly with his hands until they shook, swallowing to try and control the fear. He knew it'd come to this eventually, there wasn't anywhere else it could go once they'd started, but it was still so hard to get out of his throat. "And... if that will do it... then I'll do it." His eyes stung for some reason, and he looked away. "But, I'm not going to do anything if you're not going to really _try_."

Scriabin didn't say anything, and when Edgar got up the courage to glance back at him, he saw that his eyebrows were raised.

"Really?" Scriabin said, genuinely surprised, and there was something in his expression that made Edgar very uneasy. "You'd actually do it?"

Edgar's face just felt hotter and hotter, and he wanted to be anywhere other than here, saying any of this. "I told you... I want this to work. If I have to, if I absolutely _have_ to, then..."

"Hmm..." Scriabin stared at him a little longer, and every second of his eyes on him felt entirely too long, and too warm. It felt like it took forever for Scriabin to break his eyes away and lean back against the headboard with a sigh. "Well, I guess that's something to look forward to at least. But ugh."

Edgar did not want to think too hard about that, but something in him twisted sharply at his words anyway.

Scriabin looked up at the ceiling, oblivious to Edgar's reaction and that still felt _wrong_. Scriabin should have been able to tell, Scriabin should know everything that he felt, but he didn't. He just started talking again, like what he'd said had been completely normal. How could Scriabin have missed it? How could he not want to press Edgar further until his reservations broke? _Scriabin? Scriabin, please. Please._

"Your feelings towards me are complicated, aren't they?" Scriabin said, unbothered and unaware. "For all you talk about missing me and wanting to hear me, I don't have to tell you how many times during the day we're this close to strangling each other."

Edgar leaned back against the headboard as well, fighting down the turmoil inside to sound normal. "You can be incredibly frustrating."

"Which illustrates my point." Scriabin held up a finger. "We do mirror each other, don't we, my boy? I find _you_ incredibly frustrating as well, and my feelings towards you are..." He struggled for a second, closed his eyes tightly in focus, then let out a reluctant sigh. It was like he had to fight the words to make them come. "I know I've said many times that I simply hate you, and god knows, many times that has been completely true, but..."

And his gaze slid from the ceiling to the opposite wall, looking as far away from him as he could. "My feelings for you are also _complicated_ , to say the least."

Which wasn't something Edgar didn't already know, but something fluttered alive in him anyway, a long-dead hope he'd forgotten about, so old and dusty that he forgot what it was exactly that he'd been hoping for.

"I've..." And Scriabin made a frustrated sound, scratching at his neck. Every word seemed like a battle. "There's been a number of things I've been through, and things that I've done, in order to try and keep you sane and alive..."

And Edgar could draw the connection, he could tie the threads himself but that wasn't enough. It was still quiet inside where it mattered, and they had to try harder.

"Just say it, Scriabin."

Scriabin made another uncomfortable sound, his eyes around the edges of his glasses darting back to him for just a moment before going to back to the opposite wall. He scratched at his neck for a second more before he stopped, abruptly, and forced his hand down. "If you already _know_ what I'm getting at, then I don't need to _say_ it, do I."

" _I've_ said it, several times. Don't tell me I'm better at this than _you_."

A prick to his pride always seemed to work. Scriabin turned to face him, glaring to try and offset an indignant blush. "You absolutely are _not_ \- and it's easy to just _lie_ about something-"

"Why is it so hard to lie to me about this, then?"

"Because it's..." And he trailed off and looked away again, and Edgar got the distinct impression that the end of that sentence would have been, _not a lie_. And that hope kept fluttering.

He waited, waited for Scriabin to get up the strength to speak again.

"Can you hear me yet?" Scriabin said, still not meeting his eyes. 

"No, I don't hear anything." Edgar blinked away the pain and shored up his resolve. He was going to get them through this. "You're going to have to try harder."

"Ugh." Scriabin rubbed at his eyes again, grimacing. "Ugh."

"You said you tried to keep me alive, that you went through things to protect me. Why did you do that, Scriabin? It wasn't _just_ to protect the body for you, was it?"

Scriabin kept his hand over his face now, silent.

"You said your feelings for me are complicated. How so?" A moment. "Do you want me to go first? Maybe you need to follow my lead."

"I don't need to- I don't need you for-" Scriabin growled, growing redder under his hand. His default response to Edgar reaching out, and it sounded automatic now. He was shaking.

"I care about you." Edgar reached out and took his unoccupied hand, and he felt him jump. "I _really_ care about you." And he thought of it, how far he'd have to go, what might cross the gap between them, what it might take to open the connection, and he tried to gather his strength. "I might even-"

But it died in his throat, the fear that came with it blasting his mind clear, and he flailed helplessly in the silence for something he could manage, something he could see without blinding himself. "I _like_ you."

Even with something that light, he felt a shiver go through Scriabin's hand in his own. Was it the first time Edgar had said that to him? He felt like it wasn't, but he couldn't remember saying it before.

_Scriabin?_

"I don't want to say it," Scriabin said, in a soft voice that was startlingly weak.

"You have to." Edgar squeezed his hand. "You have to try. If you really want this, you have to _try_. You said you'd find a way to do this. Maybe this is it."

"If I do say it..." Scriabin said, still soft and now somewhat breathless. "You have to forget I said it, tomorrow. I can't trust you with it." 

"If that's what it takes," Edgar said out loud, and he'd meant to think it, but when it came out he didn't regret it. Even if it was a lie, it might have been one that Scriabin needed to hear.

_Scriabin?_

"Fine, fine, if I _have_ to... and this is _only_ because I have to..." And Scriabin was curling into a ball, hiding his face in one arm across his knees, and he left his hand in Edgar's. His tension transferred over to Edgar easily, and that same frightened, jittery feeling went through him, his stomach dropping in anticipation, his mouth going dry and he was squeezing Scriabin's hand without even realizing. 

"I..." And Scriabin choked for a second on it, a shudder going through him. Edgar couldn't move, paralyzed by the weight of what was coming. "I _guess_ I care about you too. A little. Barely."

And Edgar knew that, somewhere, but hearing it was entirely different. Something rose up so powerfully that it left him breathless, that fragile hidden hope he'd been carrying for so long finally spreading its wings and going free. Something like adrenaline coursed through him and left him shaking, but it wasn't any kind that he knew, he didn't know it could happen for something _positive_.

Reverent, hopeful, he tried.

_Scriabin?_

And there was just that awful, awful silence.

"Ugh. The look on your face." Scriabin had tilted his head just enough to look at Edgar through the corner of one eye, still hiding as much as he could from view, still holding Edgar's hand. Edgar was smiling, he realized, and he couldn't stop. "I can't believe you talked me into this."

"You really do care about me," Edgar said, breathless and close to laughter for some reason. Scriabin's hand shook harder in his own, his fingers felt so thin and fragile, and he kept drawing tighter into himself like he could just disappear from the room.

"I just said I did," Scriabin said, quiet and muffled with his face deeply hidden. "Were you not listening?"

_Scriabin?_

"It's just... I never heard you say it before." Edgar couldn't stop smiling, his heart was beating so hard and his head hurt, a little, and he wasn't sure why, but it wasn't important, not right now. Scriabin cared about him, Scriabin _cared_ about him. "I knew that you did, but... it's just different to hear it."

"You knew that I did? I find _that_ hard to believe." With a touch of his more comfortable scorn, although he didn't move. "I doubt you would have done a lot of the things you did if you knew."

"I think I've always wanted to hear it. Hear you say it." Edgar couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled like this, or this much, or for this kind of reason. This felt too important for words, surely too important to be ignored by whatever supernatural forces governed what had connected the two of them, but still he heard nothing. 

In a moment like this, there had to be something he could do. They were so close, he was _sure_ they were close. There was no way they _couldn't_ be if Edgar felt like this, if they'd actually accomplished such an impossible task and just _admitted_ it to each other. That had to be rewarded in some way, that had to mean something to someone other than the two of them. There had to be some way to cross that final finish line. "Is there anything you always wanted to hear me say?"

Scriabin made an unhappy noise and turned his head away from him, still curled into a ball.

"I know my apologies don't mean anything to you... but I know there must be something that does." And Edgar shifted a little closer to him, worried for a moment that Scriabin would try to move away, but he stayed where he was. Last night tugged at his memory, reminded him of things he didn't want to think about, things he _couldn't_ think about, but some of it was useful, some of it could be the key if he could just bear the pain of holding it. 

"I want you."

"Mph." And a full-body shudder went through him, one that he clearly didn't want from the noise he made.

"And I'm glad it was you." He reached out and touched Scriabin's shoulder, and Scriabin made another strained sound as he fought something back. "I'm glad it was you, and no one else, that found me." And Edgar slid his hand along his shoulders, around to his neck to pull him in closer to him, let go of his hand to hold him against his chest. "And I'm glad you're here now, with me. I'm glad _we're_ here, together." 

Scriabin was shaking so hard in his arms, he could feel him on the verge of breaking.

"I'm glad you're _you_." And that was it, Scriabin's breath caught, and he uncurled enough to try and push him away but Edgar didn't let him go. "No- come on, Scriabin, _use_ it, try and reach me-"

"Ngh-" Scriabin strained to break free for a few seconds more, then slumped back against him with a furious whine. "Fuck, this- I hate this. I really hate this."

_Scriabin?_

"Come on, I'm not hiding, you can't hide either. We have to be close. We have to keep trying. Don't give up now." Edgar shut his eyes in focus, listening as hard as he could, and after a few long seconds, Scriabin unfolded further to put his arms around Edgar with trembling reluctance. Edgar pulled him closer, tightened his hold on him to feel his heart, and Scriabin shifted and for a second he thought he'd pull away, but instead he moved closer to him, almost in his lap.

Surely this would be it.

_Scriabin?_

Nothing.

It was possible to be both elated and frustrated, he learned. They'd done this, they'd accomplished this impossible thing, what more did They want? How much more emotionally intimate could the two of them get? It called for a tenderness that Edgar had only really seen in books, an example set that he never intended on following, but if there was any time to do it, it'd have to be now.

Scriabin had his head buried in his shoulder, he could feel how heavy his breathing was as he still struggled to maintain some semblance of self-control. Edgar slid one hand up his back to touch his head, and his heart panged for a second at the sudden reminder that what he pictured wasn't what he was actually holding. Scriabin didn't have long hair to pet, now. 

But, Edgar could still pet what he did have, that was something. It was soft and short, and when he ran his hand over it, Scriabin shivered in his arms and muttered a curse under his breath. His body was still sensitive... it had to be very strange sensation to him. Edgar wished, longed for Scriabin to have the hair he used to, the hair he _should_ have, but that didn't make it change at all.

_Scriabin?_

Nothing.

What else could he do? There had to be something else. There had to be a way, he had to try. This felt like the time to say something, some perfect thing that'd break all walls between them forever, that'd fix every ugly thing between them, but he didn't know what to say. It was hard to think about anything but Scriabin in his arms, Scriabin holding him, and how small and vulnerable he felt now. Edgar wanted to protect this, protect what he was holding, he wanted to keep this.

_Scriabin?_

Edgar had to think, he had to think. This wouldn't last forever. There had to be something, and he rifled through his memories desperately for an answer before it was too late.

What was it he'd read in that book about the composer Scriabin had been named after...? What was it that Scriabin wouldn't let him say, that he didn't seem able to bear and wouldn't explain to him why? What was it, what was it? Edgar struggled to recall, to dig it out of a growing overload of physical sensation and emotion. Scriabin was a Russian name, Russian names had different forms than English ones, they meant different things...

It came to him only a second before he said it, before it even fully registered. "Scriabushka."

Scriabin jolted in his arms with a startled gasp, for a moment Edgar thought he was going to run and everything tensed to hold onto him, fear of making a terrible mistake flooded through him. 

Then instead, Scriabin's arms tightened, he pressed his head hard against his shoulder with a shiver.

"Ghh- fuck, you can't- y-you can't just-" Scriabin's voice trembled with some kind of emotion he wasn't sure how to identify, he could feel the heat coming off of his face and his heart hammering under his hands. "You can't just- just say that out of nowhere, you asshole, fuck."

Scriabin hugged him tightly, as tightly as he could, as he struggled to catch his breath, and Edgar held him back, and he listened.

_Scriabin?_

And there was nothing.

Edgar ran his hand along his scalp where his hair would be, gently over the softness of it and Scriabin shivered under his touch and dug his fingers into his back. They had to get closer, they had to try, he had to try, they had to be close. How could they not be close, if it felt like this?

"Scriabushka," Edgar said again, in a vaguely sing-song kind of tone, and Scriabin made a strained noise against him with another powerful shudder. All experience told him that Scriabin was going to push him away, Scriabin was going to reject this, he always rejected this, and instead Scriabin pulled him closer, tightened his grip on him until it almost hurt.

"Gh- stop it, stop saying that." Scriabin sounded breathless, muffled, and he could feel how his face was burning. His voice was shaking just as much as he was. "Stop saying that..."

_Scriabin?_

Silence.

Edgar hummed, kept his arm around him, kept stroking him with one hand, and it felt Scriabin was going to fall apart completely, something gentle and soft tearing him apart without teeth. "Scriabushka..."

"Nnh-" Something like a whine, something like a whimper, something strained with effort at keeping emotion at bay. "Stop it... stop..." Growing weaker and weaker, even as his physical reaction stayed the same.

_Scriabin?_

Nothing, nothing, and even the warmth of this moment couldn't hide the ache of that silence. Edgar still couldn't hear him, and more than ever, more than _ever_ he wanted to know what he was feeling right now. He wanted to just _know_ , even if he could already guess. 

For all that they held each other so close and so tight, for all that Edgar could almost touch that trembling softness that Scriabin guarded with his life... it wasn't enough. It wasn't _enough_ , and the distance between them still horribly gaped.

All the warmth, the safety, the relief, the strength that came from this moment, this achievement, only reminded him of everything they'd lost. Everything he'd taken for granted.

It was gone, it was all gone, and the thought occurred to him again, that awful thought that they were never going to get it back. They were never going to hear each other again.

That warmth he felt now, that shaking fragility he held in his arms, the strength in Scriabin's embrace, that this was even happening at all and Edgar had said _that_ name to him...

They'd never done this before, and that was _something_... wasn't it?

For all that it wasn't what he wanted, what they were searching for, what they'd been working for... Edgar didn't want to break it, and he didn't want to lose it.

So he stayed where he was, running his hand along Scriabin's head where his hair should be, mumbling soft things to him, and Scriabin kept his face hidden and shivered and protested weakly but didn't let him go.

He didn't run, and he didn't let him go, and that was something, at least. That was something.


	4. Experiment 4: The Last Resort

Edgar actually felt a bit better the next day. Some part of him felt warm and comfortable, quietly accomplished. It didn't have any of the anxiety surrounding it as the other firsts they'd done over the past couple days. This he could examine and hold without burning himself. This he could look at with some measure of satisfaction. 

Like everything, it came with strings. Scriabin was _very_ unhappy and made that clear almost immediately when he woke up, shoving his way out of Edgar's arms and stalking out of the room muttering curses under his breath. It wasn't the first time Scriabin had been in a bad mood and tried to make Edgar as miserable as possible as a result. He was, sadly, very good at it. But for all the insults and torment, Scriabin couldn't take that little warm feeling away from him.

Edgar could hold onto it as a small bastion of light against steadily encroaching darkness. What waited for him that night hovered on the edge of his thoughts, skulking in the woods of his daily tasks, and he knew it would close in eventually and he tried not to think about it. He begged Pepito's father (who seemed quietly amused, although willing) to take Todd for the night, carefully avoiding explaining why to him or himself.

The sun had no mercy for him, not that anything did, and night fell no matter how much he willed it not to. The thing he'd been hiding from was right in front of him now, and there was no escaping it. There was only one way to escalate the physical intimacy they'd already achieved. Edgar knew what it was, even if he didn't want to put it into words, even though he couldn't picture it without his body reacting to it. He didn't want to do it, he told himself, but if this was the price to pay... if it meant he could hear him again...

Edgar went into his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling very heavy, and Scriabin followed him not too long after. He did not look happy. "Okay. Last night was the _worst_ night of my life, and it didn't even work. It was a huge goddamn waste of time. We are _not_ doing that again."

An obvious lie, and Scriabin wasn't trying to conceal it that hard.

"So where does that leave us?" Edgar said, with a growing pit of dread in his stomach.

"You already know. Don't play dumb." Scriabin sat down on the bed next to him, leaning forward on his knees. "You and your issues. You're making this so much more difficult than it has to be."

"If my guess is correct as to what you mean..." Edgar coughed, keeping his eyes fixed firmly somewhere else. "I don't think it's something we should do... carelessly."

"What, do you want to marry me first?" Scriabin smirked at him, and Edgar turned red, which was exactly the reaction Scriabin wanted. Damn it.

"No- what I meant was, what you're planning can..." Edgar circled a hand in the air as he tried to find the words. "It can be... risky. One of us could get hurt if we don't do it correctly."

Scriabin was smirking at him still, and he shook his head slowly. "Of course you want to do research on this first. You're so predictable, my boy. You always go from point A to point B, no detours, no rest stops, no roadside attractions. Always the practical problems."

"I don't want to hurt you." Edgar crossed his arms, uncomfortable both at what Scriabin was saying, and at what he'd just said, and what the price might be for what he was about to say. "And I don't want you to hurt me either."

"Oh? Then why are we even doing this?" Scriabin grinned at him in a way that was more malicious than playful, and one that he knew sadly well. "You're the one who wants me back where I was, able to do as I like with your mind, including make it my bitch if I want. And as you've told me so many times before, that _hurts_ you." He tilted his head. "Is this the ultimate manifestation of your self-destructive masochism? _Amazing_. You've exceeded even my expectations for you, my boy."

"I'm used to you hurting me emotionally, or mentally, and I'm even used to you hurting me in dreams, but I'm not used to you hurting me out here." Edgar was not going to concede this point, no matter how Scriabin tried to bait him. "And I told you, I don't want to hurt you either."

"You know, it could be that pain might reopen our connection..."

"Well, it can't be _emotional_ pain then," Edgar said without thought, staring at the carpet. "We've already done a lot of _that_ , and I still can't hear you at all."

Scriabin was quiet, thankfully, giving Edgar a little time to think of how to continue.

"And if last night was as terrible to you as you say, then surely you had enough emotional pain to cross the barrier too, if that was the key to it." And Edgar looked at the wall. "But I still can't hear you, so clearly that can't be the solution."

Scriabin made a sound at that, something thoughtful but a bit strained and Edgar thought he'd say more, but he didn't. Something occurred to Edgar, something huge and black at the edge of his feet.

"You know... you ask me if I'm willing to suffer for this, to bring you back... are _you_ willing to suffer for it, Scriabin?" Edgar turned to look at him. "If hearing me again meant I'd have to... beat you, would you let me do it? Would you let me hurt _you_ , the way you pictured hurting me?"

Scriabin looked away, and the discomfort he had at the idea was a clear unspoken answer.

"Because, maybe we can do... this." Edgar still couldn't get himself to say it. "But, I don't think I could do that. I really don't think I could."

"Hmph." And he could see a faint red tinge on Scriabin's face now, even turned away from him as he was. "Always putting on your noble airs. You do get off on being better than everyone else."

"I don't care what you think about it, I don't want to hurt you," Edgar said. "So, I don't want to do this unless we really understand what we're doing."

Scriabin took in a breath, closing his eyes in apparent focus, and then he turned back to Edgar with his more familiar confidence. "As I said... of course you want to do research. You are _very_ predictable."

"I-"

"Even more so for someone who spent their life in your brain. I knew you'd want to look into this first. So..." 

A moment, and it clicked, and Edgar felt himself going red and also very cold. "You... you didn't..."

Scriabin pulled some folded papers out of one of his pockets. "It's really not _that_ hard to find information about these things, if you know where to look."

For a second, Edgar was speechless, and when he did find words, they came quickly and more loudly than he expected. "You- you were _just_ mocking me about wanting to do research when _you_ did research before I did? You-"

"It's not my fault I'm always three steps ahead of you." Scriabin gave him one of those infuriating looks that, just as he said the previous night, made Edgar want to strangle him. "You make it so easy. Go ahead, take a look."

Scriabin pressed the papers into his hands, and Edgar glanced down at them, bounced his eyes off but thankfully, there weren't any pictures, and he let out a tense breath and let his eyes settle.

"Christ. You are such a _mess_." Scriabin rested his head on one hand as he watched him. "I'm lucky I'm not more fucked up than I am, growing inside _that_ garbage heap." And he pointed at Edgar's head.

" _You're_ the one who wants to get back in there," Edgar said, distracted, as his eyes skimmed the lines. He tried to focus on the mechanics of it, detached the idea from him personally as much as possible. A theoretical situation involving the particulars of two men having sex that he had nothing to do with. Just a thought exercise.

"This was _your_ idea, need I remind you?"

" _This_ wasn't my idea." Edgar shook the papers at him.

"Well, I'm not seeing you come up with any better ones."

He had a point... Edgar's idea had been emotional intimacy, and that also hadn't worked. What else could they do? Was there any other way to bring the two of them close enough for Scriabin to cross the gap? At the moment, he couldn't think of any. What he was holding in his hands was making it very difficult to think clearly.

"This says that we need-"

"Like I said." Scriabin reached in his pocket again and pulled out a little tube. "I'm always five steps ahead of you."

Damn it. Edgar really hoped that they'd be able to postpone this for at least a day or something. Everything in him felt so tense, he was almost sick. There wasn't any way out of this, and with that thought a familiar calm tried to permeate the buzzing energy burning through him. If there wasn't anything he could do, he just had to accept it. He knew how to do that. He'd always known how to do that.

"Then..." Edgar swallowed, and he could feel heat burning all the way down to his neck. "Then, which one of us... goes first?"

Scriabin gave him a look. "Really? Me, obviously. You couldn't top a cracker."

"That's not true," Edgar said, too offended to think about it. "I could..." His brain caught up. "I could... do that."

"Right." In profile, he could see Scriabin roll his eyes. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Technically, if it didn't work... then Scriabin _would_ see it, when they switched places. Edgar couldn't entertain that thought for more than a few seconds.

"Remember, this says to be _careful_." Edgar pointed at the papers. "You can't rush or you're going to hurt me."

"It could help." Scriabin raised his eyebrows with that same bad-feeling grin. 

"I said no," Edgar said in his best attempt at stern, and Scriabin sighed and rolled his eyes again. "And if you start ignoring the directions and hurting me, I'll shut you out and then you'll never get back in here, so don't get any ideas."

"Oh lighten up. I was just joking." Although Edgar doubted he was _entirely_ joking. "So does Edgarbot want to jump right to the directives, or do you want to try to ease into it first? You _do_ have a tendency to have panic attacks about this kind of thing if you're pushed too far too quickly."

"That shouldn't even be a scenario that's come up between us before." Edgar crossed his arms, distinctly uncomfortable now in a way he found hard to identify, and he just wanted to reach out and push closeness away in some fashion. Well, Scriabin had to get it from somewhere.

" _Fine_ ," Scriabin sighed, long and dramatic. "I'll play your little game with you, but _just_ so you can keep it together enough for us to do this. You're lucky I put up with you."

Edgar was about to protest, get into the argument because that was a lot easier and more familiar than any of the rest of this, but Scriabin looped one arm around his waist and one hand behind his head to pull him into a sudden kiss. Edgar dropped the papers and made a startled sound, as best as he could considering, and for a moment tried instinctively to push him away, but Scriabin was not going to let him go that easily. Everything blanked out in favor of physical sensation, warmth and skin and his grip and his breath and his tongue.

He wasn't sure how long it was until Scriabin pulled back enough to speak again, breathing hard against him. "That's more like it. Just give in and obey me." And Edgar shuddered, powerfully, even though he tried not to. Scriabin pressed a quick kiss to him, too short, and for some reason Edgar felt himself leaning forward to try and prolong it, which didn't make any sense at all. "You know you want to."

Edgar wanted to say something, he intended to, he was planning on it, but then Scriabin was kissing him again and words disappeared. 

_Scriabin...?_ The call was faint, distracted, but still as persistent as always.

Edgar tried to focus on breathing, it was coming too quickly and too hard, he was overheating and everything in him felt like it was vibrating with tension, and then Scriabin was kissing his way down his neck, and Edgar started making noise that he did not intend at all. It came with each breath out, and for some reason it seemed like it was just encouraging him.

"I am _going_ to fuck you," Scriabin said, low in his throat, and Edgar made a noise at that too, one that he didn't think he could make. "And you are going to _love_ it."

"I-" Edgar wanted to say something, something in him struggling to find feet in the face of all this, to stand up and say something, affirm something he knew to be true and couldn't be doubted, and then Scriabin bit him and that wiped all of it away. Edgar rested his hands on his shoulders, he told himself to push him away, but whatever feeble effort he could make was not enough.

"And you are going to _want_ it." And Scriabin wouldn't stop _talking_ , and that was making it so much worse. He sounded too intense, something in the tone of his voice reaching into him into some strange, unknown place, pulling things out of him that he didn't know he had, that he didn't want to have. "I can tell you already do."

He couldn't, some dying thing in him kept saying, but it was getting weaker and weaker.

Scriabin pushed him, sudden and hard enough for him to take in a weak gasp, and Edgar's back hit the bed, and before he could even think about it or register it, Scriabin was on him again and nothing else mattered, nothing else could get through. His mouth, his hands, his confidence, how he moved, all he could do was react to it, all his body wanted to do was encourage it, and he didn't understand this, he didn't want to understand what this was.

_Scriabin_ the voice called in a different way, pleading, needy.

"Off, get these off," Scriabin managed to get out between heavy breaths when they broke apart, and he fumbled with Edgar's jeans. For a moment reason tried to speak again, tried to remind him what this would lead to and that he should be frightened, he should be anxious, he shouldn't want this. And he _was_ nervous, to a degree, filled with adrenaline that powered its way through him over and over. It made it hard to think, to keep track of what was happening and what they were doing. He was only vaguely aware of clothes being removed in the midst of everything Scriabin was doing him, how he was touching him, the unexplained desperation running through all Scriabin's movements that made them impossible to stand against.

"Listen to my voice." Scriabin's hands ran lower down his body, and Edgar shut his eyes and braced himself, something went tense so hard he was shaking. "Listen for my voice. Remember who's doing this to you. You _want_ it. You _want_ me."

"Mmnn-" A strained kind of whimper that he didn't want to make, and Edgar pressed a hand over his mouth to try and keep any others from getting out. He kept his eyes closed and he didn't want to picture him, he didn't want to picture any of this, but the images came to him anyway, they refused to be blurred away and everything him felt so tense it was like he'd snap in half.

Edgar could feel what he was doing, but whatever it was that was still protecting him kept him from thinking about it, from putting sensation to words or concepts. All his concentration was focused on his breathing, in keeping himself quiet because that had suddenly become the most important thing in the world.

"Focus, Edgar." And he jolted, everything in him reacting when he first felt his finger, and Scriabin's other hand settled on his stomach and pinned him back down to the bed, refused to let him move. " _Focus_ , don't shut down on me. _Listen_ for my voice."

_Scriabin_ , the voice called, and it was asking for something but he didn't know what it was.

It was too much, he couldn't handle this. Everything in him focused entirely on not making noise, on his hand over his mouth, on straining to be quiet with everything he had. Even with all that effort, Edgar couldn't stop the occasional sound getting through, and the satisfied laugh Scriabin made each time only made it worse. Time became blurry, sensation all blurred together, it didn't stop and all he could do was bear it, all he could do was try to weather his way out of it in the only way he really knew how. 

For all he expected it to, it didn't hurt as much as he thought. It hurt a little, which seemed reasonable to him, but not as much as he had expected. Struggling through the bonfire of his thoughts, he realized that Scriabin actually _was_ being careful about this, and that was too much for him to process or appreciate right now. 

_Scriabin_ , the voice kept calling, louder now.

"You _will_ hear me," Scriabin said, distracted now it sounded like, and sensation changed and he knew what it was, what Scriabin was doing and he didn't want to know, everything in him twisted so powerfully and he felt like he was going to burn alive. He heard Scriabin groan through clenched teeth, he could feel his hands tight on his legs, and he made a noise that was meant to be a word but couldn't find the structure of it.

Everything in him was screaming, everything wanted some kind of attention he didn't know how to give, and Edgar could feel tears stinging his eyes, hear the strangled noises was making behind his hand as Scriabin began to move against him. This couldn't be happening, he had to be dreaming, something in his brain must have broken for him to be experiencing this, for thinking this was happening but it didn't stop.

_Scriabin!_ As desperate as he couldn't allow himself to be externally.

Scriabin set an unsteady rhythm, grunting with the effort of it... this was new to him as well, after all, and it apparently wasn't as easy as it might have seemed on paper. When it settled into an undeniable pattern, something Edgar couldn't erase and couldn't ignore, some broken part of his brain connected it to a kind of _relief_ , which definitely spoke of something being _wrong_. That relief broke into tears for some reason, he didn't know where they were coming from, and there was something in _those_ too that didn't match what was happening, they were from somewhere light but that didn't make _sense_.

Everything was a haze, Edgar couldn't even keep up his mental image now, lost in motion, and as useless as it was he tried to re-contextualize it, explain it as something else, see it as purely physical, something he was uninvolved in, but the noises he was making disproved all of it.

_Scriabin, Scriabin, Scriabin_ it gasped just as shamelessly inside, reaching out for more, calling and calling with increased fervor.

Time had gotten so fuzzy, he wasn't sure how long it was before he felt Scriabin tighten his grip on him, heard him make a long shaking sound, and he felt something somewhere that his brain refused to process, and he tried, and tried, and tried.

Edgar couldn't hear anything.

It was too much, too much to take in. Everything in him was in shambles, nothing was connecting, nothing made sense, and he couldn't touch it, he couldn't bear it, it seared and seared and he couldn't bear the pain. All he could do was struggle to breathe as an occasional trail made it down the side of his face from one of his eyes.

Scriabin was panting as he leaned over him, out of him now, and Edgar waited for that awful question, for the burn he knew was coming.

Scriabin breathed, and breathed, and then he collapsed on top of Edgar, his head buried in his chest.

"Damn it..." Scriabin said, breathless and broken, as he shuddered. "Damn it, damn it, damn it..."

It wasn't the question, but it felt the same, it was the same. The ache came back, echoing, building, impossible to stop, impossible to break.

Silence between them, internal and external. All that was left was a descent into that same terrible, lonely darkness.

\---

Edgar didn't want to get up the next morning.

He knew that he'd have to, he knew that he should, he knew that his life was too full of responsibilities to just lie and do nothing, to just _wallow_. He knew all those things, and instead of putting out the flame of indifference it just threw more gas on it. It was easy to make himself feel worse, even if he couldn't pinpoint the exact shape of what pressed down so heavily on him. It was broad and dull, not like normal sadness as he knew it. 

He didn't want to get up, and he lay in bed and stared at the wall without his glasses, his eyes barely open, unable to focus on anything except the grey, empty void of his life and his future. An unending plain of misery and sameness, where one day his legs would give out and he'd just stop, and he'd be in no different place than when he'd started. 

All this, he went through all this, and it didn't even work. He felt Scriabin getting up, heard him move around, called for him mentally to that awful silence, and he stayed where he was.

He didn't want to keep doing this. He didn't want to do what he knew would come next, and he didn't want to be _alone_ either, and one of those desires was stronger than the other. He wanted to hear him, he wanted to hear his voice inside, he wanted a solution to everything, he wanted something to wave away the clouds over his life and fix everything. Make all of it mean something, make all of it make some kind of sense and follow a logical progression that'd lead to a satisfying conclusion and a happy ending. Nothing made any sense. The thoughtless randomness of the world was so exhausting.

Edgar knew logically, somewhere, that there were rarely ever any neat and tidy solutions. He knew that hearing Scriabin again wouldn't really solve anything, it'd probably just make things worse, and he'd be miserable again once it was accomplished, just as he'd been miserable before it, and miserable before _that_. But emotion rarely followed logic, much to his frustration, and that determination with no rational cause had latched onto its target and would not be dissuaded. What was even the point of anything, without what they used to have?

He wanted to lay there until he just stopped existing entirely. And with how invisible he was, that wasn't an impossible wish.

Or at least, it would have been possible if Scriabin wasn't there. Scriabin came back, pestered him, poked him, sat on him at one point to try and get a response out of him, and then finally he set his coffee cup down and just physically dragged Edgar out of bed. Edgar didn't help, but he didn't fight against him either. He listened to Scriabin curse and berate him without any emotion, and took the coffee cup Scriabin shoved into his hands more because he was afraid he'd get scalded if it dropped than anything else.

Scriabin kept up a buzz of insults and pointed commentary as Edgar stared at the wall, drank down enough of the coffee to start to wake up a little, and when he finally did decide to stand up, silently, Scriabin followed. He nearly circled him, transparently desperate for some kind of acknowledgment or attention, still talking non-stop.

As awful as it was, time wouldn't stop because he didn't want to exist, and Scriabin wouldn't leave him alone for all that he wanted to disappear.

Scriabin shadowed him as he woke up, as they ate breakfast together with Todd (who looked concerned), fishing every moment for Edgar to wake up and join him, and eventually Edgar managed to get up the energy to do it, and once he started it got easier. He settled into an argument with him over who drank the last soda, and the dark grey clouds faded, and he wasn't feeling his best but at least he felt functional.

Scriabin did not mention what had happened the previous night. As they ate, and Scriabin was quiet only as long as it took to chew and drink, Edgar could feel his eyes heavy on him, the weight of his focus, and he knew he had to be calling for him. He had to be doing whatever it was he did in there to try and reach out to Edgar, and yet, Edgar still heard nothing.

_Scriabin_ had been running through his head throughout the day, although it was quiet and grey. Not a call for a response, but just a thoughtless acknowledgment of Scriabin's presence.

The day went on, and the threat, the specter of what was going to happen, kept any calm or peace from settling. Scriabin was the one who made the call to Pepito's father this time, although he looked shaken afterwards for some reason, and it was Scriabin who had to come up with a reason why Todd couldn't be home that night. The guilt of it turned Scriabin's words into a meaningless buzz, and while Todd looked uneasy, he could tell they were asking this of him for a good reason, and he agreed to go.

With him gone, what lay ahead only seemed that much more inevitable. When the anxiety clashed horribly with the apathy and it felt like Edgar would scratch his scars open again, he thought of that night when he'd held Scriabin in his arms and broken him apart with just gentle words and soft touches. He couldn't stop thinking about it, for some reason.

Edgar lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and he heard Scriabin come in but didn't bother to look over to him.

"So," Scriabin said, testing, and Edgar didn't acknowledge him. He wasn't sure what it was on the ceiling exactly that his eyes were so focused on. It didn't feel like anything mattered. "Are you going to fuck me or what?"

And Edgar startled, sitting up with a sharp breath, blushing and the look he saw on Scriabin's face was _relief_.

"Scriabin!"

"What?" He held his arms out in half a shrug. "That _is_ what's going to happen, isn't it?"

Edgar still couldn't properly engage with the thought. Shreds of his earlier malaise tried to cling to him, but indignance and repression were dug in deeper, and they were stronger. "You don't have to say it like that."

Scriabin sat down on the bed beside him, bouncing once with that infuriating smile. "What, would you prefer making _love_ to me? I think that'd be _worse_ for you, honestly."

It was, in its own way, and Edgar hated the fact that he wanted to just sink into grey nothingness and Scriabin wouldn't even let him do that. God, he was the _worst_.

"What fun synonym for sex _won't_ make you have a little virgin fit? Although, you're not one of _those_ anymore." Scriabin gave him a smirk sidelong, and without thinking about it Edgar shoved him.

"Scriabin!"

Thankfully, Scriabin just laughed at him as he re-situated himself, and there was still that tinge of relief to it. "You should be proud, Edgar, there are a lot of people who can't boast that and they're not nearly as fucked up as you are." And he looked up to the ceiling for a second, still awful and smug. "Really, you had the honor of being fucked by _me_ , so you should be _doubly_ proud of that accomplishment."

Edgar buried his face in his hands, he felt too warm and he wasn't sure what he was going to do if he didn't occupy them with something. He shivered with upset and tension, which was frustrating in its own right, it didn't seem called for. "Scriabin, I swear to God, I'm going to..."

"It really is criminal how vastly underappreciated I am," Scriabin said, in a sarcastically sulky tone which wasn't _completely_ insincere. "I'm trying to help you, and what do I get for it? The same thing I always get."

"How is this helping?" Edgar took his hands away to glare at him.

"You _have_ to make some kind of peace with the concept, Edgar. It's one thing to turn your brain off when it's happening to you, but that's harder when you're doing it to someone else. Are you going to do this or not?"

Edgar wanted to be angry, but it twisted into something reluctant, close to afraid.

"Do you want to hear me or not?" Scriabin said, more serious now. "Are you willing to try _every_ thing to get me back?"

Edgar took in a long breath, and he nodded with his head down.

"Which _means_ you have to fuck me. I mean, I fucked you, so it's only fair, isn't it?" He vaguely caught the motion of Scriabin gesturing out of his peripheral vision.

"Do you... want me to?" Edgar said, keeping his eyes down, and his voice was quiet. There was a long moment that seemed like consideration before Scriabin spoke.

"I'm not as fucked up about sex as you," Scriabin said, a little too light and casual. "I'm not going to follow _your_ example. I told you, it's not a big deal. It _should_ just be a fun romp for both of us. The only reason it _isn't_ to you is because you can't stop throwing all your baggage on it."

"So... you want me to." Edgar stayed focused on that thought, although he wasn't sure why. Another moment where Scriabin made a thoughtful noise, twisted one hand in debate over what to say, then leaned back against the headboard with a dismissive sound.

"I don't have issues with sex like you do," Scriabin said, in that same suspiciously airy tone. "I can't even imagine letting something like sexual pleasure stand in the way of something like reopening our connection. Sexual pleasure isn't even a bad thing! It should be an _incentive_ , not a stumbling block."

"You want me to."

Scriabin frowned in annoyance. "Is this what it'll take for you? Me, on my knees, begging for you to bestow upon me your divine dick?" A moment, and he got that awful smirk again. "I'm not agreeing to do _any_ thing on my knees, by the way."

"Scriabin!" Edgar shoved him again without thinking, just wanting him _away_. "Stop it, this isn't helping!"

Scriabin didn't seem bothered by being shoved again, although he didn't laugh at this one as easily. "God, you are so frustrating sometimes. Then what _will_ help you with this, Edgar?" And there was something dark in his voice that weighed down something intended to be light. "I'm not going to put on a paper bag so you can pretend I'm not there."

"No- that's not-" And that hurt instead of embarrassed him, and guilt built quickly. "I don't want that, I don't want to do that, I want to hear _you_ , I want to do this with you _for_ you to come back, I don't..." He was grabbing randomly for something to say, dizzy and disoriented, and he pressed a hand to his head. "This is just hard for me, you _know_ this is hard for me, you should know exactly how I feel about this kind of thing. You could at least not make it harder for me, it's just going to make this worse for both of us."

"It _shouldn't_ be hard for you, that's my point," Scriabin said, although he seemed somewhat mollified. "There's no reason for you to get this flustered over something that should be normal."

"Well, there's no reason for you to get flustered over tenderness, so we're even."

He felt the words connect, that little jump from Scriabin across the covers, and Edgar braced himself for retribution. Any other outcome for the night would be preferable to where it was going, he told himself.

_Scriabin?_

"So what _will_ make this easier for you?" Scriabin said eventually, sounding a bit sulky.

"I don't know..." Edgar took in a shaky breath, running his hand through his hair. "This isn't something I ever thought I'd do. I don't know how to..."

"Stop screaming internally about it."

Sometimes Scriabin reading his thoughts was annoying, but this time it was at least somewhat helpful as well. "I know I have to do it, I'm going to, I want to hear you, but it's just..."

"You know, someone who wasn't as secure as I am would probably be a little insulted right now." And again, there was a tinge more honesty to that than Scriabin probably intended. "It's not _exactly_ flattering to hear someone talk about touching you in the same way they might talk about touching a dead animal carcass on the side of the road."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry..." Edgar mumbled, shaking his head back and forth. Even his scalp felt hot under his hands. "That's not how I mean it to sound, it's..."

"Yes, I know, I know. I know what's going on in there, depressingly enough." Scriabin sighed. "You are such a trainwreck."

A quiet, but living part of him spoke up, suggested something, and Scriabin did have to get his sharp tongue from somewhere. "You're the one who wants to get fucked by a trainwreck, so I don't know if you're in a real position to judge."

He felt that same little start of surprise through the bed sheets, and he braced himself again, but Scriabin, thankfully, just laughed. "Finally showing a little spirit! That's a start, at least. Come on, then." Scriabin reached out, wound one hand in Edgar's shirt, and lay back, pulling Edgar on top of him. "I _know_ you want to shut me up. I don't have to tell you _how_ , do I?"

On some level, it didn't seem fair that this didn't bother Scriabin like it bothered Edgar, that static didn't constantly scream across his thoughts as he didn't want to think of it or see it or feel it or anything. Scriabin seemed completely at ease and that wasn't fair. How could he just lay there and say things like that and just smirk at him like it was nothing? How did it mean nothing to him and so much to Edgar that it felt like it'd tear him apart?

_Scriabin?_

Nothing, and Edgar closed his eyes with a deep breath. He had to reopen their link. He _had_ to. It didn't even matter why, all he could think about at the moment was just that he had to do it. 

"If you don't do anything, I'm just going to keep talking. Is there any particular childhood memory you'd like me to go over with you in detail? Any mistake or embarrassing thing you said that we can relive together? I can remember it all just as clearly as you can, even out here. I can think of-"

Edgar _did_ want him to stop talking, and when he pressed his mouth over his he did accomplish that, although it didn't make him quiet. Scriabin made a noise into his mouth, something instant and unthought of, encouraging in a way he didn't expect. Scriabin's hands drifted to his face, held him as he kissed him, and he got that same kind of strangely vulnerable feeling from him, although he wasn't sure why.

Everything he did, Scriabin responded to with some kind of sound, still unable to be quiet even in doing this. That made sense, which was something of a relief in comparison to how little sense anything else made. Edgar was too warm, his heart was racing and every sound Scriabin made brought something to the front of his mind that he didn't want to acknowledge, that he couldn't see directly. All he could do was glance at it through the corner of his eyes, and that made him deepen the kiss just to hear Scriabin moan under him, which he did.

_Scriabin...?_ he asked, and he was prompting a response, but not the usual one he expected. What would this have felt like, what would he be feeling from him, if the two of them were still connected?

Silence, and that was all the more reason to keep trying. It had to work.

When he broke away from him, Scriabin made a faintly disappointed sound, breathing hard, and the two of them were matched in that. Scriabin was under him, Scriabin was under him something strange kept repeating in his head, and he didn't know why. 

"You better keep me distracted..." Scriabin smiled at him, still panting. "Or I'm just going to get started again."

Edgar didn't want that, although he didn't have the presence of mind to think of why. Scriabin let him cut his words off without much protest, running his hands along Edgar's shoulders, down his chest, touching him and Edgar had to touch him back, he had to and that also similarly lacked any kind of explanation. Scriabin leaned into his hands, tried to bring him closer, something eager about it that Edgar couldn't think about or analyze, not right now.

He felt too hot and his head felt clouded, nothing was really coming through a haze except his voice calling for Scriabin, the silence, and a powerful desire to break that silence, to do what it took to break it, to _do_ things to him that he couldn't even put words to. Nothing had any kind of sensible explanation, and that was the worst part.

"This isn't all you had in mind, is it?" Scriabin whispered when they broke apart again. "This isn't all you want to do to me, is it?"

"Ngh-" Why did he say that, why would he say something like that, it burned through Edgar in a way he hated, in a way he did not want it to at _all_. Why did Scriabin have such an awful knack for saying things he didn't want to be true?

"Do you hear me yet? I don't hear you," Scriabin whispered by his ear, and Edgar shivered and shook his head just barely, expecting some kind of punishment, but it seemed just the response Scriabin wanted. "You better _make_ me hear you, you coward."

How the hell could he have Scriabin pinned underneath him, trembling and desperate and vulnerable, and _still_ feel like he wasn't in control?

"I..." It wasn't Edgar's brain that was making the words come - it was something powerful and formless, something he couldn't see or understand. "I will, I..." And he swallowed again at the little noise Scriabin made at that. "I just have to... figure out how..."

"You read the papers just like I did." Scriabin sounded a little annoyed now. "You didn't _forget_ , did you? You're not getting out of this that easily."

"I-I don't want to get out of it, I-..." That heat kept overpowering everything else. "I want to, but I..."

"You're lucky I'm horny as hell right now." Scriabin had a hint of a growl in his voice now as he set his hands on his shoulders. "Clothes off for starters, idiot."

_Scriabin_ , in a quiet request for him not to be angry. Something in him hesitated, didn't want to move away which he decided was reluctance to provoke Scriabin further, but Edgar eventually pulled back enough to shed each piece of clothing, decidedly not thinking about for what purpose the entire time. Caught up in himself, he didn't watch very carefully as Scriabin did the same, and he blinked when Scriabin pressed something into his hand.

"You remember what _this_ is for, don't you? You better," Scriabin said, with a distinctly warning tone in his voice, and Edgar nodded without thinking about it, his hands shaking. "Am I going to have to talk you through the entire process of fucking me?"

That quiet part of him spoke up again. "Are you implying you weren't going to talk through the whole process anyway?"

"Mm." Scriabin looked away with a dismissive tilt of his head. "I'll give you that one. If you don't get started, then _I'm_ going to get started."

Edgar didn't want to hear a lecture, not when he was already nervous and deeply anxious like this, but he _did_ want to hear him. In more ways than one, he realized, although he didn't want to.

For all the awkwardness of the interlude, the two of them hadn't lost their interest, at least. Scriabin lay back, giving him that condescending, calculating look he often did, although it didn't really look appropriate on him considering his position.

_Scriabin...?_

Nothing, and Edgar shook his head and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could do this. If he got that response, it would all be worth it, and the more he psyched himself up, the stronger that nameless thing within him grew.

The noises Scriabin made as he touched him were no help at all. Even just slight movement went through him powerfully, and when Edgar pressed one finger into him (something his brain erased almost instantly when it happened), Scriabin arched his back with a gasp, clutching the sheets with white knuckles. He wanted to talk, Edgar could see it on his face, but the sensation was too powerful for it to get through.

Simple steps, directions, just one step to the other without thinking about it. He had to think about something else, and he ended up thinking about Scriabin writhing against the sheets, his chest heaving, shaking with every movement Edgar made. Scriabin was desperate, it was clear on his face... he wanted more, and that thought was blinding to touch, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Scriabin wanted more of what he was doing, he wanted more than what he was giving to him, and Edgar wanted to hear more, he wanted to see what would happen. It was curiousity, he told himself, nothing more, but it was far more powerful than anything he'd ever experienced before.

_Scriabin,_ he called, this time in a way that wanted him to plead in return, to beg him for it, and he couldn't engage with that tone of voice at all, he _couldn't_. All of Scriabin's bravado, his confidence, his presence, all of it was slowly coming apart under his fingers, and he wanted to see that, he wanted to see _all_ of that.

Don't think about it, Edgar kept telling himself, don't think about what you're doing, think about him but don't think about yourself, don't think about it. Edgar could see it building, could see Scriabin's breathing grow faster, everything in him tensing, and Edgar wanted to push him over that edge, he wanted to _see_ him lose control entirely.

And Scriabin did, with an incredibly gratifying, shaky sound, his body arched as he came, and he could _see_ it blaze its way through him and leave him shivering and boneless. Drained, exhausted, all Scriabin could do was pant for breath, faint wanting sounds working into each one. His face was flushed, his glasses askew, his eyes closed, something about him strangely fragile in a way that made Edgar want to hold him, hold this in some way he couldn't define. 

Scriabin _had_ said his body was still rather sensitive. It'd make sense that he wouldn't be able to handle something like this for very long. That was logical, that made sense, and then some irrational, animal-like thing in him wondered how he'd react when Edgar _really_ got started.

The thought startled him, almost horrified him, he didn't know where it came from or _why_ he'd think something like that, this was all for a greater purpose, this was a means to an end. Edgar didn't _want_ to do something like this, he didn't _want_ to touch Scriabin like this, he didn't want to _do_ things to him, he just _didn't_. He should stop right now, surely this was enough, wasn't it?

Scriabin had gone further than this. If he really wanted this, if Edgar wanted what they had together, he'd have to do the same.

Images of it came through the static trying to protect him, movement required that was deliberate enough that it couldn't be ignored, Edgar had to _focus_ on this. And the sensation of it was not at _all_ like his fingers, it wasn't like _anything_ he'd ever experienced. Something this powerful he had no idea how to process, much less ignore.

"Fuck-" Scriabin got out, breathless and shaking, his head thrown back. "Aah-"

And the noises Scriabin was making were new, he hadn't heard anything like those before, and he wanted to hear them, he wanted to hear more of them, every kind he could manage to get out of him. He _wanted_ , and he tried to find rational explanations of what, and all it was was a thin cover over the feeling of Scriabin around him, of him being _inside_ him. This shouldn't be happening but it _was_ happening, and he couldn't get himself to stop. He didn't _want_ to stop, he could barely realize, and that heat didn't let him hide from that thought as much as he wanted to.

Edgar had never done this before, never anything like this, and it was more difficult than he would have thought to thrust evenly, to find the right angle to do it, but that animal thing inside him wasn't about to let that stop him. Any movement he made into and out of him burned something deep in him, drove him to do more, sent more sensation through him until he couldn't see or acknowledge anything else.

_Scriabin_ , he called over and over along with a thoughtless physical rhythm.

Every movement he made seemed magnified in Scriabin, sent so much through him he barely seemed able to hold it. He cursed without anger when he could manage it, pleading for something although Edgar wasn't sure what. Mostly they were breathless gasps, moans at points, strained whines when his body shuddered powerfully outside his control. He was so _loud_.

All of it was adding up, all of it adding fuel to the fire. The sounds Scriabin made, how he moved, how he felt, how he _wanted_ it, he _wanted_ Edgar to do this as openly and shamelessly as he'd ever heard him want anything, he _wanted_ Edgar to-

And the thought was so nonsensical, so dangerous, so inappropriate, something in him shut down, or opened, or tightened and all of a sudden he felt it rush up through him, too fast for him to think about or try to fight. Everything tensed, and before he knew it, everything went white and he felt himself-

_Inside_ of him, he felt himself-

_Scriabin_ was laced through the entire shuddering wave of it, although it wasn't so coherent. _Scriabin, Scriabin,_ over and over, mindless and adoring as Scriabin made a beautiful shivering sound at the sensation, realization of what Edgar had just done. He was taut for a moment beneath him before he went limp, vibrant and spent and overwhelmed by it all, by him.

And Edgar didn't want to think about it, he wanted to just stare at Scriabin and see nothing else, think about nothing else but him and the sounds he'd drawn out of him and whatever it was he felt for him, but it wouldn't be denied. It couldn't be ignored.

It wasn't any different from the other end... in a way, it might have been worse.

Nothing. He heard nothing.

Edgar pulled himself out, guilt assailing him out of nowhere for what he'd done, something like shame and regret coming with it, but that aching void opened up and devoured everything else.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Edgar leaned over Scriabin with shaking arms, hung his head and the pleasant haze dissipated into an awful sadness he was becoming sadly familiar with.

His eyes hurt, he knew it was coming, he wanted to fight it but what he'd just done had drained all his reserves. Edgar took in a thick breath, gritted his teeth.

"Damn it..." It came out weaker than he'd wanted, shaking, and Scriabin made a soft sound under him, despair that matched his without words. "I..."

Scriabin pressed one hand over his eyes, his mouth twisted in focus, fighting it just as Edgar was fighting it perhaps. 

Scriabin had usually been the one asking the awful questions, the ones he never wanted to hear. 

This time, it came from him.

"Now what do we do...?" Edgar got out, barely, and Scriabin's breath caught in the beginning of a sob.


	5. Conclusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self(?)-Injury warning for this chapter, details are in the end note.

For once, they said little to each other.

Barely an acknowledgment as they got up, passed each other, ate and went about their lives, or what passed for their own lives, outside of each other. The silence felt wrong but at the same time appropriate, like it was the only way to respond to something like this. It was too big for any kind of words.

As hard as Edgar tried to give up hope, tried to let it go, tried to just _accept_ it was all over, he couldn't do it. It burned and burned his hands and he couldn't let it go.

_Scriabin,_ he said, as he looked at Scriabin over the top of a book, as he watched him stare into the distance, a million miles away where he could never find him. Edgar couldn't even get up the will to ask, all he could manage was his name. A question wouldn't have changed the lack of response anyway, it all still hurt.

It was too quiet during the day, Todd was quiet, even Scriabin was quiet, and Edgar wanted to ask and he couldn't get the words to come out of his mouth. He couldn't even get the words internally. Something was wrong, Scriabin didn't do this, Scriabin didn't stay _quiet_ , and he should ask, he _should_ ask and fix it, but he didn't. How self-absorbed, how selfish, Edgar could imagine Scriabin saying to him. All you care about is yourself.

The previous days had been marked with growing tension, fear that came as night fell and he knew that things would escalate, that he'd be pulled further down a staircase he did not want to descend. There was none of that now, nothing got through. Utterly detached, Edgar watched the hours and minutes go by until exhaustion made it too hard for him to read, too hard to even track the characters on the TV, and some blank and sensible part of him said that it was time to go to sleep, and tomorrow it'd be the same, and the same, and the same.

Edgar sat down on the floor in his bedroom, his shirt halfway off, and he was staring at the wall, and he couldn't stop and he couldn't continue. He just sat there, caught up in a cage of _nothing_ , and there wasn't any way out of it.

He heard Scriabin come in, and he couldn't move to look at him. 

"So..." Scriabin said, and he cleared his throat. "That didn't go exactly as I thought it would."

Enough of a crack formed in the shell around him, and Edgar could move and speak again, still listless but it was something. He finished taking off his shirt, and it felt like it took every bit of energy he had. "It didn't work."

"Well, no, obviously," Scriabin said, faintly annoyed but not as much as he should have been. There was something heavy in his words, recognizable, the same greyness that cloaked Edgar now but he was fighting it. "Now, there are a few conclusions we could draw from this."

This tone Edgar knew, it invited cooperation, and that he could follow. He tilted his head at Scriabin, an invitation to continue, and Scriabin came and sat down in front of him. 

"One is that one of us is not trying hard enough." Scriabin held up a finger, and a bit of a spark lit in Edgar, a desire to protest, but Scriabin beat him to it. "I know _I've_ been trying, and from..." It was hard for him to make the concession. "Various things you've done, and how far you were willing to go... you have been trying as well. Otherwise, I don't know you at _all_ , and that can't be the case."

It was a small thing in a long line of blaming Edgar for his own mistakes, and Edgar was going to take it. It wasn't much, but he'd take it.

"After all, if there's one thing we both know, it's that your entire life revolves around me," Scriabin said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "You can't live without me, obviously, so it follows that you've been putting _some_ effort into this. So it seems unlikely that it's a personal failing on either of our parts."

"I _have_ been trying," Edgar said, agreeing without much emotion.

"Another possibility is that reopening the pathway relies on some kind of action or contact between us we haven't done yet. We certainly haven't exhausted _every_ option..."

"I can't think of anything else." And more despair worked into that than he would have liked, his arms shaking. Scriabin's hands twitched like he was going to do something, but in the end they stayed where they were.

"You've always been lacking in imagination," Scriabin said, without the scorn he expected. "I'm sure you'll come up with one of your methodical little lists about what we haven't done eventually. I've been working on one of my own, although I haven't finished it yet."

"What have you thought of?" Edgar raised his eyebrows, and Scriabin looked away from him.

"Like I said, it's a work-in-progress." He tried to wave the question away. "There are many things we could still do. Lots. We've barely even scratched the surface."

Edgar didn't have to say anything for his doubt to come across.

" _Another_ possibility..." Scriabin kept his eyes away from him. "Is that we simply haven't been persistent _enough_."

A moment, and Edgar tilted his head, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Think of it like this. You have a wall in front of you, one that's strong and very thick. You have in your hands a perfect pickax to break through that wall. So you give it a swing and you take a large chip out of it, but the wall stays up. Does that mean the pickax doesn't work? No, it means that it takes more than one hit to get through."

Edgar's stomach twisted as it sank in, his brain trying to stave off a flood of hazy memories he kept trying to erase. "So, we'll have to...?"

"Oh, don't give me that look." Scriabin moved his head in another one of those exaggerated eyerolls, although he seemed more annoyed than he wanted to be. "You enjoyed it, even if you told yourself you didn't afterwards. It could be _far_ worse. Which would you prefer, Edgar, fucking me, or beating me until I go unconscious?"

"I-" The choice was obvious, but that didn't make it a question Edgar wanted posed to him so suddenly. The thought of hurting Scriabin, hitting him, didn't make that sick feeling any better. "I- well, the first one, obviously, but-"

"So maybe stop with the sour looks about it. You are such a baby sometimes." Scriabin crossed his arms, frowning. "As I was saying. There is a possibility that _repeated_ contact will break through the barrier between us eventually, and I think it's one worth exploring."

"What if..." Edgar said, his stomach still tight at the thought of it, and at the dark possibility that had dragged him down all through the day. "What if we just... what if we just... can't?"

Scriabin stared at him, his gaze burning, and Edgar looked down at the carpet and his hands were still shaking.

"Are you suggesting that bridging the gap between us isn't _possible_?" Scriabin said, still staring at him, something very tense in his voice. "That it's something I can't do?"

That tone in his voice was a warning, Edgar should know better than to keep going but he couldn't get himself to stop. The hopelessness of it just poured out of him. "I can't hear you, I still can't hear you, after everything we've done- what more can we _do_? Maybe we really _can't_ -"

Scriabin's hand moved and he flinched, and Scriabin grabbed his chin and forced him to look up and meet his eyes. He still had that intense focus, something that was almost frightening.

"No you don't. I know all your life all you've done is give up on things, but you're _not_ giving up on this. I'm not going to let you. We _can_ do this. I _know_ we can. And I'm _going_ to do it. I don't care what it takes, or what we have to do. I _can_ do this, and I'm _going_ to do this. _I_ don't give up." And he gave Edgar a small shake. " _I_ don't give up, Edgar. Do you understand me?"

He did. Scriabin had always been that way. Even when it was absolutely pointless and hopeless, he'd fight with all his strength to the bitter end. Of course he wouldn't accept this. He couldn't.

Edgar wasn't sure he could accept it either, but it felt like he was close. 

_Scriabin..._ Now, not as strong a question, not as hopeful.

"How long are we going to do this?" Edgar said, and it was weak.

Scriabin did not let him go.

"As long as it takes."

It was just what he thought he'd say, what he knew he'd say, and there was something comforting in giving up and letting him have this. Scriabin fought things, and Edgar accepted things, and in this, they easily complemented.

Scriabin would keep trying, and Edgar would keep trying because Scriabin wanted him to, and maybe, somehow, eventually it would work. Edgar couldn't entirely say he'd lost hope that it would. Almost, but not entirely.

Scriabin wouldn't let that little spark die, even if it would have made things a lot easier. He'd dragged Edgar out of bed, and he'd keep dragging him for as long as he had to, and for what? For what reason? For what purpose?

What was it that kept Scriabin here, that kept him treading water furiously by Edgar's side, keeping his head above water at the risk of the both of them drowning? Why didn't he let him go and move on without him?

Why?

"What if we have to keep trying at emotional intimacy?" Edgar said, and he felt Scriabin's fingers tighten on him. "Are you going to still do that?"

Scriabin hesitated for a moment, he saw it flicker across his face, and then it was gone and his mouth was a resolute line again, his gaze solid. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Edgar knew he'd say that, but for some reason the words prompted something in him, something he didn't know how to classify. It blended the borders between relief and warmth of some kind, and it made him want to reach out, it made him want to hope even though it felt impossible.

"Why do you want to come back to me so badly?" For some reason, the words wavered near the end, sudden and unclarified emotion shaking through them. Anxiety shot through him with the realization that he'd bared his throat to him without even thinking of it.

Scriabin stared at him, quiet, and he could see something in his expression, something he didn't recognize, some kind of tension through him that matched Edgar's. He let go of Edgar's chin to take hold of his face with both hands, to hold him in place and he didn't look away from him.

_Scriabin..._

"You belong to me," Scriabin said, without any of that intensity that he expected or was used to, without that fire that lit something in Edgar that made him so uncomfortable. His voice was quiet, and yet it felt like it was the only thing he could currently hear. "You're mine." And he took in a breath that shook. "And I'm..."

Scriabin couldn't say it, he couldn't make the words come, but Edgar knew what it was. He knew, for all his heart jumped as he filled in the rest with how his voice should sound.

_I'm yours._

That blended emotion surged upwards, Edgar drew his eyebrows together and for some reason his eyes hurt. Something along those lines must have hit Scriabin as well, as his expression softened in a way Edgar hadn't seen before, and when Scriabin pulled him forward, he felt a stab of adrenaline that he was going to kiss him again.

Instead, Scriabin pressed his forehead against his, and his eyes were closed.

"I'm not going to let you go," he said, in that same quiet voice that deafened everything else. "I won't."

And a silence where he felt, knew words should go, and again Edgar could fill in the gaps so easily.

_I can't._

That feeling got stronger, it was doing something to his breathing and making it uneven, pulling an emotional response he didn't want to give and he wasn't sure why he was so resistant to it. He closed his eyes and focused, pictured Scriabin his mind, pictured feeling his hair against his forehead, pictured him as he should be, reached out his hand to him.

_Scriabin...? Can you hear me...?_

A small voice, a faint call, and it was swallowed by the void just like all the others.

He couldn't hear anything.

Edgar reached out, mirrored him and took Scriabin's face in his hands, and the two of them sat there, both trying as hard as they could to maintain what composure they had. So close, so far, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt and hurt and hurt.

\---

True to his word, Scriabin did not give up.

It kept happening, regardless of how reluctant Edgar was when they started, regardless of how strange and uncomfortable he was with how he felt during, and regardless of how confused and detached he felt when it was done. It didn't make sense, he didn't want to feel that way, but it didn't matter. For all that Scriabin tried to talk his damage (as he put it) out of him, it remained stubbornly in place. Edgar didn't want to be afraid, and he didn't want to not be afraid, and he didn't know what he wanted. 

Scriabin pushed but didn't hurt him, which he didn't understand. It would have been extremely easy to be too quick and too rough, but he wasn't. He got something out of this that Edgar didn't, he could see it in his face, hear it in the noises he made, feel it in how tightly he held him close.

It wasn't nothing to Scriabin. It meant a lot to him in a way he wasn't saying, and in a way Edgar didn't feel comfortable prying into. He wasn't sure what he would find, and this was already hard enough. Thinking about it too much brought up some kind of warm, positive feeling that he didn't want to examine.

Edgar kept calling for him each time. And sometimes, he thought maybe Scriabin would get too caught up in the moment and forget, or Scriabin just wanted to do it for his own sexual gratification and was using it as an excuse, but every time, at the end, that same despair crushed him just as it crushed Edgar. 

The silence between them refused to break.

Scriabin did not give up.

Edgar did not give up, but it was hard to try. It was an extremely surreal moment when Scriabin had _asked_ him to start an emotionally intimate conversation, and an even weirder one when he initiated one himself when Edgar couldn't bear the disappointment of failure again. 

Those nights had their own feelings he couldn't easily explain or rationalize or understand, but they were easier to deal with than any of the ones related to sex. There was something simpler about them, something warmer when he held Scriabin in his arms and said gentle things to him, and it stripped him down to something fragile and vulnerable in a way no physical force or sexual activity ever could. For all that Scriabin protested and complained about it, he could never resist it, and Edgar felt like Scriabin wanted this too. He got something out of it, even if he didn't want to, and Edgar could relate to that feeling.

Edgar brought him to tears with nothing more than soft kindness, and even that couldn't cross the gap between them. Even that wasn't enough.

And with his back against the wall, given no choice, Scriabin tried it himself. They mirrored each other again in that Scriabin didn't know what to do, just mimicking what Edgar had done. Scriabin held him and tried to say something nice to him, the key word being _tried_. He choked on the few words he could get out, always following them with qualifiers and explanations, escape routes and exceptions.

And Edgar understood, the few times Scriabin tried it, why Scriabin had reacted to it so strangely. Edgar wasn't any more used to tenderness than Scriabin was, and for all that Scriabin's efforts at it were ragged and threadbare, they were more than he knew how to deal with. Scriabin mumbled to him that he didn't want to live without him, that he didn't know _how_ to live without him, that even now that he was outside, Edgar remained his world and he cursed him for that, he went into an entire monologue about how unfair and cruel that was and how he hated Edgar for it, just hated him so much, and he went on and on until his voice broke and then he just clutched Edgar tightly and shivered, and all of his supposed anger just glossed off of him. 

Just like Scriabin, Edgar wanted to tell him to stop saying things like that just because he didn't know how to handle it, he didn't know what the feeling it was it brought up or how to deal with it, but he didn't want to stop hearing it, and he didn't understand _that_ either. So much of it didn't make any sense. Scriabin told him he was kind and for once he didn't mean it as an insult, and Edgar's eyes stung for some reason and it didn't make sense, it was a _compliment_.

Scriabin whispered that he was a good person, it felt like everything inside him shattered and even _that_ wasn't enough to break through the wall that separated them.

They began to sleep tangled around each other, Scriabin theorizing that prolonged contact would help. Edgar got used to it, to waking up in Scriabin's arms, or waking up with Scriabin in his own, and it meant something to him but he wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't enough.

They dabbled in pain, desperate as they were, although it was far more structured than Edgar had pictured. They sat together, a knife between them, and Scriabin had cut into his own arm until Edgar begged him to stop, and then it was his turn, and he went deeper than he thought he could until he felt too sick to continue.

Bandaged, they tried again, this time with Edgar holding Scriabin's arm, and he couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it, he dropped the knife and started hyperventilating, and Scriabin had to talk him down from a sudden panic attack he couldn't explain. He didn't normally get those, or he didn't think he did, anyway, but it didn't seem like Scriabin's first time bringing him out of one.

When it was Scriabin's turn, he got further than Edgar did. That didn't really surprise him. Edgar hissed through his teeth, shut himself out of his body until he came back to Scriabin shaking him, saying his name over and over. He looked frightened, and Edgar had bled all over the towel they'd put between them.

Still, he heard nothing.

They'd run out of ideas, but Scriabin would not give up. He kept pushing, kept trying, kept kissing him, touching him, fucking him, shivering in his arms, holding him while they slept. At times, Edgar looked at the bandages on their arms and then later the scars, and he didn't know how it'd come to this. He was getting used to it, all the closeness Scriabin initiated and invited, until he began to do it out of a routine, he told himself. It became a part of his day, it was just something they did, and it became natural without him thinking about it or what that meant. That's what he told himself.

Sometimes whatever this was was frightening, and sometimes it felt awful, and sometimes it helped, sometimes it came close. Sometimes he wanted it, sometimes some part of him enjoyed it, and sometimes, and he hesitated to think it, sometimes he even felt happy when they were close, when they held each other, when Scriabin wanted him without shame or said something kind to him. That usually came with guilt and some measure of fear, but it didn't erase it.

Sometimes Edgar regretted doing this, and sometimes he didn't.

Maybe that was just how relationships were. Maybe that was the best he could hope for between the two of them. He didn't know. He didn't have much to compare it to, and their situation was unusual to say the least. He didn't know.

Always, always Edgar wanted to hear him. They never stopped trying, even during the day when they tried to do normal things. He could see in Scriabin's eyes that he was trying, and he wondered if now Scriabin could see him do the same. 

"Do you want this or not?" they asked each other constantly when the other one balked, and always they relented.

Always it ended in failure, and always they wanted hard enough to try again.

What more could they do? What else could they do? They'd run out of options. Edgar told himself they kept doing this because it might work if they were just persistent enough. In reality, he wasn't sure he could stop doing this now if he tried.

They didn't have what they once had, but they had this. Mumbled confessions, heated touches, throaty gasps and warm arms. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was something that he wanted, as hard as it was for him to accept that.

Scriabin wanted it, he could tell, although he wanted some aspects more openly than others. They weren't that dissimilar, when it came down to it.

They were lying in bed, and Scriabin had his head on his chest, holding him loosely and deeply asleep, and Edgar looked down at him, tired and dazed. He reached out and ran his fingers over the raised line of white that ran down Scriabin's arm, and could see its twin on his own.

This wasn't going to stop. They were just going to keep doing this, they were going to keep stitching themselves to each other until they finally broke through. This was, in its own way, solid. Dependable. Reliable. Edgar could trust this.

He could trust that Scriabin would keep trying. That he'd keep wanting him, that he wanted him more than anything.

One yarn strand cut, but there were others. They weren't going anywhere.

Maybe, someday, it would work. Maybe, someday, Scriabin would be right, and he'd break through what kept them apart, and he'd get what he wanted and he'd gloat and Edgar would have him back where he was supposed to be, and everything would be okay. Everything would make sense. Everything would be fixed.

Maybe, someday, that would happen.

Edgar felt the raised skin under his fingers, felt Scriabin's even breathing, felt his heartbeat through his skin.

Right now, he had this. They had this.

It was all they had, but they had this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The two of them cut themselves and each other with a knife to try and use pain to bridge the gap. They only try it each way once.


End file.
